"Give us a chance and we'll get
it clear for you! We didn't know your net was there. We didn't mean to
do it, you know!"

"You won't lose anything!" I added. "We'll pay the damages!"

But they could not understand what we were saying, or did not care to
understand.

"You break-a my net-a! You break-a my net-a!" the smaller man, the one
with the earrings, screamed back, making furious gestures. "I fix-a you!
You-a see, I fix-a you!"

This time, when Paul thrust him back, he seized the oar in his hands,
and his companion jumped aboard. I put my back against the tiller, and
no sooner had he landed, and before he had caught his balance, than I
met him with another oar, and he fell heavily backward into the boat. It
was getting serious, and when he arose and caught my oar, and I realized
his strength, I confess that I felt a goodly tinge of fear. But though
he was stronger than I, instead of dragging me overboard when he
wrenched on the oar, he merely pulled his boat in closer; and when
I shoved, the boat was forced away. Besides, the knife, still in his
right hand, made him awkward and somewhat counterbalanced the advantage
his superior strength gave him. Paul and his enemy were in the same
situation--a sort of deadlock, which continued for several seconds, but
which could not last. Several times I shouted that we would pay for
whatever damage their net had suffered, but my words seemed to be
without effect.

Then my man began to tuck the oar under his arm, and to come up along
it, slowly, hand over hand. The small man did the same with Paul. Moment
by moment they came closer, and closer, and we knew that the end was
only a question of time.

"Hard up, Bob!" Paul called softly to me.

I gave him a quick glance, and caught an instant's glimpse of what I
took to be a very pale face and a very set jaw.

"Oh, Bob," he pleaded, "hard up your helm! Hard up your helm, Bob!"

And his meaning dawned upon me. Still holding to my end of the oar, I
shoved the tiller over with my back, and even bent my body to keep it
over. As it was the _Mist_ was nearly dead before the wind, and
this maneuver was bound to force her to jibe her mainsail from one side
to the other. I could tell by the "feel" when the wind spilled out of
the canvas and the boom tilted up. Paul's man had now gained a footing
on the little deck, and my man was just scrambling up.

"Look out!" I shouted to Paul. "Here she comes!"

Both he and I let go the oar