“You know jolly well who I am,” roared the biggest of the three. “And you had better land us as quick as you can, or it will be a bad job for you, so I tell you.”
The mate looked at him in silence for a moment; then the skipper chimed in.
“Who the deuce are you?” demanded Captain Monk; “and what are you doing aboard my ship?”
“What are you trying to get at, captain?” cried the crimp, furiously. “You know very well I’m Dan Sullivan. I brought you six men last night, and when we took them into the forecastle—”
There was a shuffle among the men, and the next minute the young Swede had sprung at Sullivan’s throat and the two were tossing about the deck battering each other like wild beasts.
“Stand back, everybody!” cried the mate. “Let them have it out.”
Sullivan was the bigger and heavier man, but the Swede was a perfect young athlete, and had a cruel wrong to wipe out. The muscles of his arms and neck stood out like strong cords as the two rolled from side to side.
Not a word was uttered by the officers or crew, who stood calmly looking on.
Suddenly, by a quick movement, the Swede pinned Sullivan against the fife-rail around the mainmast, and with his right hand battered his face unmercifully. Then, seizing him by the throat, he flung him into the lee-scuppers, where he lay without movement.
The Swede looked at his foe for a moment, then coolly walked over and wiped his boots on him. Next, turning towards the poop where Captain Monk and the officers stood, he touched his cap and said:—