The bullets sang about the American's ears, when
Deschaillon's ostrich-like kick flashed through the light and caught the
sailor in the pit of the stomach. The automatic dropped from his hand,
and he crimped up like a stuck grubworm.
But while the defenders were occupied with this little flank attack,
half a dozen hooks were firmly lodged on the rail, and at least eight
men were mounting swiftly. At their head came an officer waving a sword.
The firing from below suddenly ceased, lest they hit their own men. In
the silence that followed, Madden heard the hiss of rising steam, and
from somewhere the tinkle of a bell.
Suddenly out of the shadows, the whole force of the defenders leaped at
the Germans and attacked them as they strode over the rail. There was a
clattering of revolvers, a thwacking of sticks and iron pins, and the
smashing of thrown coal.
Then the combatants grappled hand to hand on the rail of the tug,
swinging eerily in and out like wrestlers, a strange sight in the
beating searchlight.
Madden closed with the officer, and by good fortune caught his right
wrist, so the fellow could not shorten his sword and stab him. The
American kept trying to twist the German's arm and make him drop his
blade, but the fellow had thrust his left hand under Madden's arm pit
and reached up and caught him about the forehead.
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