“You’re goin’ to crawl now, are ye?” he yelled.
“It’s foolish and wicked for us to act like this,” said I, hastily. “What will your father and my mother say?”
“I don’t care what they say!” he shouted, wildly. “I’ll make you wish you’d never struck me, Clint Webb.”
He sprang aft again. I caught the glimmer of moonlight upon something he clutched in his hand. “What are you doing, Paul?” I cried.
But he plunged toward me, his dark features writhing in passion. At the moment Paul Downes was a murderer at heart; although I believed I could beat him in any fair fight, the weapon in his hand frightened me.
“Put it down, Paul! Put it down!” I begged of him. But he was on top of me in a breath and we rolled over and over in the sloop’s cockpit. Why it was that he did not seriously injure me, I cannot tell to this day! He struck at me viciously a dozen times; but by a miracle I escaped even a scratch.
Suddenly I caught his wrist, twisting it so that the open claspknife shot out of his hand. The relief I felt at this must have renewed my strength. In another instant I had rolled him over upon his face and knelt upon him so that he could not move. There was a piece of codline in my pocket and I had his wrists knotted behind him in short order—nor was I particular whether I hurt him, or not! Then I stood up and rolled him over with my foot.
“There!” I panted; “if ever a fellow deserved jailing, you’re that fellow, Paul Downes.”
“I’ll fix you for this! I’ll fix you for this!” he kept blubbering.
I was bruised and lame myself (especially where Paul had kicked me in the leg) and now I discovered that my right coatsleeve was slit from the shoulder to the wrist. I had just escaped suffering a dangerous wound.