Before Tom could extricate the weapon Ed Davis was on him in one leap.
Let it be understood that it was contrary to the natures both of Davis and of Clem Frobisher to treat any one with the brutality which they were displaying toward Tom Saunders. Yet it was not brutality. They were both thinking, not of Tom, but of the two old people in the vine-wreathed cottage.
Ed had mapped out a course, Clem had approved it, as had Captain Ezra Saunders, and now the two partners were following it rigidly. If it turned out badly, Tom would get no more than he deserved; if it turned out well, so much the better.
Blinded though he was, however, Tom gave the lanky Iowan the fight of his life. It was full seven minutes before Ed had his opponent on the deck, and even then Tom still lashed out blindly at the figure sitting on his chest. Not until Clem doused him anew with bucket after bucket of water did he give in.
“All right,” he mumbled, rising unsteadily. “All right! You guys wait till I can see, that’s all!”
“There’s no waiting aboard this hooker!” snapped Clem. “You get for’ard and clean that fish, and do it right, see?”
“I’ll do nothin’ o’ the sort!” returned Tom through his split lips. “You can beat me up all you want—I ain’t goin’ to stir a foot.” A volley of oaths escaped him.
Clem, his lips tight clenched, inspected him for a moment, then turned to Ed.
“Get that bit of line out o’ the locker aft, Ed—the rope’s end that’s tarred. Go after this guy, and give him a taste of deep-sea sailors’ life.”
For the rest of the afternoon Tom Saunders worked like a horse. A bit of thin rope, tarred into a stiff club, is a wonderfully effective inducement, when properly applied. Poor Tom made close acquaintance with it.