As he uttered the threat he sprang upon the boy so suddenly that Brandon was totally unprepared for the assault. His victim was no match for his great strength, and was borne to the floor at once.
The villain’s hand upon his throat deprived the boy of all power of utterance, and he felt himself being slowly choked into insensibility.
Suddenly the door between the apartment and the bar room was flung wide open as though a small hurricane had descended upon the establishment of the New England Hotel. Don’s villainous assailant—big and burly though he was—was seized in a grip of iron, pulled from his victim, and thrown bodily to the other side of the room.
“You scoundrel!” roared Caleb (for it was he) in a voice that made the chandelier tremble. “Would you kill the lad?”
But Brandon, now that the pressure was removed from his throat, was on his feet in a moment, staring curiously at the big, wooden legged sailor.
“Just saved you from adding murder to your other sins, did I?” continued the mate of the Silver Swan. “Did he hurt you, lad?”
“Guess I’m all right,” responded Brandon, feeling of his throat as his assailant arose to his feet, scowling ferociously at the newcomer.
“I’ll live to see you hung yet, Jim Leroyd!” Caleb declared, shaking his huge fist at the sailor.
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Brandon; “is that his name? Why, he told me he was Caleb Wetherbee!”
“He did, eh? Blast his impudence! Let me tell you, lad, if Cale Wetherbee looked like that scoundrel, he’d go drown himself for very shame. I’m Caleb Wetherbee, myself, and you, I reckon, are Brandon Tarr.”