He came crouching sideways toward
Payne, the knife held point forward ready for the spring and upward
thrust, which, with the body weight behind it, would drive the long
blade through a possible arm guard and deep into the abdomen. Roger's
back was against the rail and he could not retreat. He heard Higgins
ask a question, but he did not turn his head. His thumbs hooked easily
in his belt, his eyes held steadily on the captain's, he waited, his
body apparently frozen with fright. In reality he was seething with
purpose and ready to function at the right moment, his eyes betraying
no vestige of his intentions. Suddenly his left foot shot out and
upward with incredible swiftness. The captain's knife hand flew up to
save itself, and ere it came down Roger, moving forward with the kick,
had swung his right fist like a thunderbolt to its mark beneath the
captain's heart.
The thud of the blow was followed by a moment of complete silence, of
complete inaction. The crew behind the captain stood still, staring
and frozen with consternation. The captain stood slightly stooped
over, his knees bent, mouth open, gasping for air, his eyes popping.
Slowly, brutishly he began to wilt and topple forward. He was almost
bent double before he fell; and with the thud of his body upon the
deck, one of the crew groaned: "Killed by a fist blow, by God!"
"Killed nothing," retorted Higgins.
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