The negro stumbled over him and plunged earthward, the iron bar flying harmless from his grasp.
"Good little Davy!" apostrophized Brice, as he hurdled the sprawling bodies and made for the dock.
The way was clear, and he ran at a pace which would not have disgraced a college sprinter.

Once, glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the Bahaman trying blasphemously to disentangle his legs from those of the prostrate and wriggling Davy.

He saw, too, Roke pawing at his cut face with both hairy hands, and heard him bellowing confused orders which nobody seemed to understand.
Arrived at the dock Gavin saw that Standish's launch was gone.
So, too, was the gaudy little motorboat wherein Rodney Hade had come to the key.

Two battered and paintless motor-scows remained, and one or two disreputable rowboats.
It was the work of only a few seconds for Brice to cut loose the moorings of all these craft and to thrust them far out into the blue water, where wind and tide could be trusted to bear them steadily farther and farther from shore.
Into the last of the boats--the speedier-seeming of the two launches--Gavin sprang as he shoved it free from the float.
And, before the nearest of the island men could reach shore, he had the motor purring.

Satisfied that the tide had caught the rest of the fleet and that the stiff tradewind was doing even more to send the derelict boats out of reach from shore or from possible swimmers he turned the head of his unwieldy launch toward the mainland, pointing it northeastward and making ready to wind his course through the straits which laced the various islets lying between him and his destination.
"They'll have a sweet time getting off that key tonight," he mused in grim satisfaction.