a mad fury seized upon the wireless officer. without giving a thought to the automatic pistol in his hip-pocket he hurled himself upon the treacherous arabs.
strong, agile, and carrying weight, his sudden and unexpected onslaught took the pair as completely by surprise as their murderous attack had taken their victims.
with a crashing blow from his left peter felled the fellow with the knife, stretching him insensible upon the deck and hurling the glittering steel into the lee scuppers.
so headlong had been mostyn's rush that its impetus proved his undoing. his foot caught in the folds of the canvas. he tripped across the limp and inert body of one of the occupants of the overturned tent, and with a dull thud he measured his length upon the deck.
he regained his feet quickly, but not before the second arab had recovered from the shock of the unexpected diversion. the next moment peter and the arab were wrestling furiously.
with a mighty heave the wireless officer swung his lithe and muscular antagonist from the deck, but the arab's fingers were gripping peter's throat in a sinuous and tenacious hold. swaying, turning in short circles, the two combatants struggled. it was a question of who should be able to hold out longest—the englishman with his windpipe almost closed or the arab with his ribs strained almost to bursting-point and his lungs as empty as a deflated tyre.
once peter swung the arab round in the pious hope that he might crash his opponent's head against the mast, but the fellow, although on the point of suffocation, contrived to turn aside. then with a sudden movement he released his grip on the englishman's throat, transferring his attention to mostyn's eyes.
peter's fairly long hair afforded a secure hold for the arab's fingers, while his thumb slithered down mostyn's forehead preparatory to the typically arab trick of gouging out his opponent's eyes.
"would you?" spluttered peter.
releasing his hold of his foeman's body, he put a rallying effort into a terrific uppercut. the blow was well-timed. the arab was simply lifted from the deck. his arms outstretched, his fingers still grasping a generous helping of peter's hair, he described a perfect parabola, arab number two thudded unconscious upon the deck by the side of his previously vanquished compatriot.
dazed and breathless, peter strove to recharge his lungs. he was barely conscious of the blood flowing from the raw patches whence his hair had been uprooted. it was his throat that pained terribly. he seemed still to feel the claw-like fingers pressing remorselessly into his windpipe. every gasp of air rasped his lacerated tongue, which, in his imagination at least, had swollen until it threatened to complete the choking process that his opponent had failed to achieve.
the respite, agonizing though it was, was a short one. a warning cry—whence it came peter knew not—put him on the alert.
approaching with swift, cat-like movements were two more arabs, one of whom was the captain of the dhow. the latter had a knife in his hand, its long blade shimmering in the starlight. the other fellow, although he wore a knife in his sash, relied upon an iron bar as a weapon of offence.
for the first time during the encounter peter remembered his automatic. the thought gave him confidence for the renewed struggle, but his fingers, trembling with the muscular reaction, fumbled as he drew the pistol from his pocket.
he was a fraction of a second too late. before he had time to level the weapon the arab with the bar dealt him a terrific, flail-like blow. stepping aside and stooping, peter avoided the swing of the weapon by a hairbreadth, but the automatic was struck from his grasp and flew half a dozen yards along the deck.
the arab, carried half-round by the impetus of the swing of the bar, finished up by dealing the captain a heavy blow upon the wrist that caused him to drop the knife.
instantly peter saw and seized his opportunity. grasping the arab sailor round the waist he advanced upon the captain, using the former as a shield and battering-ram.
retrieving the knife with his left hand, the skipper of the dhow advanced cautiously, to be confronted at every approach by the struggling, helpless form of his compatriot.
two to one
two to one
it was a strenuous task for mostyn. already sorely tried by his previous and successful combat, he realized that the unequal struggle could not last much longer. the weighty and frantically kicking arab was surely wearing out his last remaining strength, while the comparatively uninjured captain was awaiting his opportunity of rushing in and knifing the exhausted englishman.
peter had "seen red", now he was beginning to "see white", for a mist swam in front of his eyes. he felt his knees giving way under him. he was no longer able to hold his human buckler clear of the deck, and the arab's bare heels were beating an erratic tattoo on the planks.
seizing his chance, the arab captain sprang. the steel glittered in the starlight. peter could see that. he braced himself to receive the stroke, when a dazzling reddish flash stabbed the air, followed almost simultaneously by a loud report.
as far as peter was concerned the fight was finished. he lay unconscious on the deck, sandwiched between his living buckler and the body of the treacherous captain of the dhow.
