With the fall of their leader, they seemed to emerge suddenly from the spell that had held them still. It seemed to Nick as if there were twenty flying fists in front of his face. He recovered himself immediately, and, stirred to better efforts by the odds against him, he let drive scientifically and with deliberation, notwithstanding that he sent in his blows so swiftly. One--two! One--two! The detective’s hard fists drove right and left into the faces of the men before him. Usually they landed on the jaw, although now and then, for a change, the target was an eye or nose. “Come on!” roared Nick Carter, warming up comfortably with all this excitement. “How many are there of you?” One--two! One--two! In the quiet of the night, with no other sounds to be heard, the blows thudded as if some one were kicking a dog. One of the sailors went down, but the two left came on, fighting desperately. The detective was ready for them. A finished boxer, he was economical of his exertions. When he struck, he always landed, and when he parried, he moved only just so much as was required to ward off a blow. There were no fancy twists or ballet master’s gyrations about Nick Carter when using his fists in real battle. A rain of heavy blows descended upon him. He retired just enough to get arm room, and came back steadily. Had he had his assistants by his side, the detective could have held off these powerful seafaring men to the end. But all he had was Mike Corrigan, and poor Mike had been put out of commission by a bullet. So it came that even the iron physique of the great detective weakened under the strain of the last half hour. On the other hand, the sailors were fresh. Moreover, furious at the fall of their superior officer, the first mate, they determined to avenge him at all hazards. The two men made a rush at Nick Carter side by side, and though he sent forth a hailstorm of blows, which seemed to fairly smother them, they contrived, by shameless “covering up,” to keep on their feet, until, by sheer weight, they forced the detective to his knees. Still fighting, he was sent forward on his face. He had been beaten, seven against one, almost into unconsciousness! Almost--but not quite. He lay still, on the ground, face downward, but keeping a sharp eye on what might be going on around him. CHAPTER X. QUIET PREPARATIONS. “He’s a tougher man in a scrap than I thought he was,” observed one of the yacht’s crew--Groton, in fact--as he ruefully patted a very sore place on his cheek bone that promised to develop into a glorious black eye. “I always knew he could fight, but this is the first time I ever came against him. Holy mackerel! How he can hit!” Kennedy was sitting up, spitting sand from his mouth and looking around in a dazed fashion. He groaned as he put a hand to his head. He had come down with a terrific bump when Nick Carter had whirled him to the ground at the end of their argument.