A mad fury seized upon the Wireless Officer. Without giving a thought to the automatic pistol in his hip-pocket he hurled himself upon the treacherous Arabs.

Strong, agile, and carrying weight, his sudden and unexpected onslaught took the pair as completely by surprise as their murderous attack had taken their victims.

With a crashing blow from his left Peter felled the fellow with the knife, stretching him insensible upon the deck and hurling the glittering steel into the lee scuppers.

So headlong had been Mostyn\'s rush that its impetus proved his undoing. His foot caught in the folds of the canvas. He tripped across the limp and inert body of one of the occupants of the overturned tent, and with a dull thud he measured his length upon the deck.

He regained his feet quickly, but not before the second Arab had recovered from the shock of the unexpected diversion. The next moment Peter and the Arab were wrestling furiously.

With a mighty heave the Wireless Officer swung his lithe and muscular antagonist from the deck, but the Arab\'s fingers were gripping Peter\'s throat in a sinuous and tenacious hold. Swaying, turning in short circles, the two combatants struggled. It was a question of who should be able to hold out longest—the Englishman with his windpipe almost closed or the Arab with his ribs strained almost to bursting-point and his lungs as empty as a deflated tyre.

Once Peter swung the Arab round in the pious hope that he might crash his opponent\'s head against the mast, but the fellow, although on the point of suffocation, contrived to turn aside. Then with a sudden movement he released his grip on the Englishman\'s throat, transferring his attention to Mostyn\'s eyes.

Peter\'s fairly long hair afforded a secure hold for the Arab\'s fingers, while his thumb slithered down Mostyn\'s forehead preparatory to the typically Arab trick of gouging out his opponent\'s eyes.

"Would you?" spluttered Peter.

Releasing his hold of his foeman\'s body, he put a rallying effort into a terrific uppercut. The blow was well-timed. The Arab was simply lifted from the deck. His arms outstretched, his fingers still grasping a generous helping of Peter\'s hair, he described a perfect parabola, Arab Number Two thudded unconscious upon the deck by the side of his previously vanquished compatriot.

Dazed and breathless, Peter strove to recharge his lungs. He was barely conscious of the blood flowing from the raw patches whence his hair had been uprooted. It was his throat that pained terribly. He seemed still to feel the claw-like fingers pressing remorselessly into his windpipe. Every gasp of air rasped his lacerated tongue, which, in his imagination at least, had swollen until it............