The breathing of the two men came in short, sharp barks that sounded hoarsely as coughs as they stood straining there in a deathlike lock. For a second or two all motion ceased, and they stood, except for the working of their opposed muscles, like two stone figures. The next instant, however, the slow, irresistible force of Ned's compressing arms overcame Kennell's stubborn resistance, and the bluejacket was dragged yet nearer into the toils he dreaded--dreaded with white, frightened face and beaded brow. But even as Ned prepared to throw him with a mighty crash to the deck, a strange thing happened. Kennell's body grew limp as a half-filled flour sack and slid like an inert mass down Ned's body. The next instant the boy felt his ankles gripped in a steel-like hold, and, utterly unable to resist, he was toppled over to the deck. As he fell, one of Kennell's big hands slid round to the back of the Dreadnought Boy's neck, and Ned simultaneously experienced a queer, fainting feeling, as if he were being borne far away from the _Manhattan_ and his surroundings, up, far aloft, into the fleecy clouds. Again the hand struck, so softly it seemed as if his neck had been merely stroked, but the sense of illusion increased. Ned's eyes closed. Suddenly--just as it seemed to the boy that he was entering a delightful land, where flowers bloomed luxuriantly and birds sang the sweetest song--a sharp voice shattered his illusion like a soap bubble. "Ned! Ned, old chap! Get him, for the love of Mike!" It was the red-headed Herc released from his cell ahead of time by the captain's commutation of sentence. Like a steel spring suddenly released, Ned's body curved upward, and the next instant the wily Kennell's body was in his close embrace. This time Ned had caught him where all his Oriental tricks were of no avail. Back and back he bent Kennell till, with a great gasp, the bluejacket crashed down to the deck, his head striking with a heavy thud. "Downed him!" shouted old Tom, capering. "The kid wins!" yelled the delighted jackies. Kennell, dazed and astounded at his sudden loss of the match he had made sure was his, got clumsily to his feet. "Shake hands," said Ned simply, extending his palm. "I don't like you, Kennell, but I think you are the cleverest wrestler I have ever met." With a scowl of fury and a half-articulated cry of rage, Kennell dashed the outstretched hand from him and hastened away from the jeering cries of his shipmates, with whom, as has been said, he was by no means popular. "Well, if he doesn't care to be friends," remarked Ned, as the jackies, led by Herc, crowded around him and shook his hand warmly, "he doesn't have to. I suppose we shall have to take the consequences." What those consequences were to be neither of the Dreadnought Boys dreamed at that instant. Perhaps it was as well they did not. While the congratulations were still going on, a boatswain's mate came bustling up.