It was as if two harmless chemicals had met and blended into nitroglycerin.
Deprived of his gun, the Arab drew a knife; and no British sailor
lives who does not understand the quick-loosed answer to the glint
of steel. Fist and boot both landed on the Arab quicker than his
own thought served the knife, and the weight of quick concussions
jarred him into all but coma. This time Byng caught the dog in time
and held him back, leaving Curley Crothers to finish matters by making
the long knife prize of war. Once more he helped the Arab on his
feet, smiling hugely and gentling the iron sinews with huge paws that
could have wrenched them all apart if need be.
"Take my advice, cully, and weigh quick!" he counseled, looking the
Arab over and making sure the unfortunate had not been too much hurt.
"Run for shelter where you can cool your bearings! Run off to the
mosque and pray, to make up for all that cussing. Go and be good!
And next time you meets us, be friendly--see?"
The Arab was too apoplectically angry to comply, but Crothers took
him by both shoulders and shoved him; and finding himself shot forward
out of reach, seeing safety ahead and its possible corollary of awful
vengeance, he suddenly achieved discretion and scampered through the
gap in the wall.
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