"I'll take that money-belt of yours, young feller," Mr. Breed announced. "And you be quick about it—not forgetting what's in your trousers pocket!"
In the passion of his indignation, Alan neglected to play the game by the rules. The indifference he displayed toward the weapon was positively unprofessional, for he struck it aside as though it were nothing more dangerous than a straw. And in the same flutter of an eyelash, he launched himself like a wildcat at the throat of Mr. Breed, who went suddenly over the stern, his firearm sinking to the bottom while he splashed and gurgled and blasphemed and saw his crew (who had been the first to suggest this affair while the two watched Alan through the window of the railway station) make sad business of an attempt to overpower Mr. Barcus.
The splash made by the first on entering the water, indeed, anticipated the second splash by less than a minute. And then Mr. Barcus was bending his back to the oars while Alan knelt in the stem and brandished a boat-hook, asserting his intention of braining the first who dared swim alongside.
"And just for this," he added before getting out of earshot, "I'm going to treat my party to a joy-ride in your pretty power-boat. You'll not get a cent; but if you send a man to Newport to-morrow he can have the boat back."
He made the peroration as Barcus brought them
