Flint was a powerful man, or had been. The surprise of the attack over, he
jumped to his feet, and blazing with murderous fury rushed Dennison. Jane
saw a tangle of arms, and out of this tangle came a picture that would
always remain vivid--Flint practically dangling at the end of Dennison's
right arm. The rogue tore and heaved and kicked and struck, but futilely,
because his reach was shorter. Dennison let go unexpectedly.

"Listen to me, you filthy beachcomber! If you ever dare speak to Miss
Norman again or come within ten feet of her I'll kill you with bare hands!
There are no guns on board this yacht--bare hands. Now go back to your
master and say that I'd like to do the same to him."

Flint, his hands touching his throat with inquiring solicitude--Flint eyed
Dennison with that mixture of pain and astonishment that marks the face of
a man who has been grossly deceived. Slowly he revolved on his shaking
legs and staggered forward, shortly to disappear round the deck house.

"Oh, Denny, you've done a foolish thing! You've shamed that man before me
and put murder in his heart. It isn't as if we were running the yacht. We
are prisoners of that man and his fellows. It would have been enough for
you to have stepped in between."

"I haven't any parlour varnish left, Jane. His shoulder was almost
touching yours. It was an intentional insult, and that was enough for me.
The dog! Still looking at the business romantically?"