He had learned the trick with many blacks at Meringe and on board the _Eugenie_, so that as often he succeeded as failed at it.

His teeth came together in the slack of the white duck trousers.

The consequent jerk on Captain Duncan's leg made that infuriated mariner lose his balance.

Almost he fell forward on his face, part recovered himself with a violent effort, stumbled over Michael who was in for another bite, tottered wildly around, and sat down on the deck.
How long he might have sat there to recover his breath is problematical, for he rose as rapidly as his stoutness would permit, spurred on by Michael's teeth already sunk into the fleshy part of his shoulder.
Michael missed his calf as he uprose, but tore the other leg of the trousers to shreds and received a kick that lifted him a yard above the deck in a half-somersault and landed him on his back on deck.
Up to this time the Captain had been on the ferocious offensive, and he was in the act of following up the kick when Michael regained his feet and soared up in the air, not for leg or thigh, but for the throat.

Too high it was for him to reach it, but his teeth closed on the flowing black scarf and tore it to tatters as his weight drew him back to deck.
It was not this so much that turned Captain Duncan to the pure defensive and started him retreating backward, as it was the silence of Michael.
Ominous as death it was.