“No,” panted his brother, with a wicked word as Nicky teeth closed on his flesh and he snatched his hand free. “Make him a hostage! Hold him. Here—ahoy, the ship! Give a hand!”
Nicky tore and fought but against two powerful men. His fourteen years, his athletic prowess, were little help to him. His strength was in no way equal to theirs. From the Libertad came excited voices.
From the trail broke cries and the sound of Brownie’s automatic barking as he caught sight of the men; but Mr. Neale stayed his hand, catching a view of Nicky in the group.
Before they could get there and intervene, Nicky had been flung to willing hands, had been thrust back into the cabin, an engineer was rocking the flywheel of El Libertad, her motor took hold with a roar and a tremble of the hull, Don Ortiga and his brother had thrown themselves onto the bow deck, clinging to the rail, and then scrambling down out of range, and, backing down stream, El Libertad was beyond the leap of Brownie which fell short and sent him plunging down onto the coral bottom.
Mr. Neale shouted to Nicky; he was helpless, having no weapon. Nicky could not answer; he was surrounded, his mouth was being tied securely with a handkerchief rudely thrust between his lips.
El Libertad backed slowly but surely down the stream.
From the bank Brownie, sputtering and soaked, hailed.
“Libertad—ahoy!” he cried. “Stop or we’ll sink you!”
“With what—your fat?” cried a lusty sailor with a roar of laughter. “If you shoot you’ll hit your boy—see, here he is!”
Screening behind Nicky, whose bound form they lifted into view, the evil sailors sent a defiant guffaw back to the men on the bank.