Timpoochee tried, in vain, to stand.
“Where does yer think yer goin’?” demanded the fat Smitty, again kicking Timpoochee - this time into a slimy pile of fish heads and carcasses.
Timpoochee tried his best to utter some kind of cry of help to Cornstalk on the shore.
“Shut yer yap,” ordered Smitty as he slapped the boy across the cheek.
That was it.
That was all the awakening Timpoochee needed to return to him his wits. He was the son of Yufala, the leader, and was not going to be pushed around by anyone.
He reeled back and swung hard at the fat sailor’s knees, knocking him from behind.
He grabbed the first object he could find, a molded batten from one of the masts and charged at Smitty with all his fury.
He sensed the chained slaves wrestle to free themselves as he plunged the batten into Smitty’s head.
The sailor staggered backward and bounced to his knees.
The skinny Poker squealed and ducked back down into the hatch.
Recovering himself, Smitty staggered to his feet.
“Yer little red bastid,” cursed Smitty as he lunged at Timpoochee who was trying desperately to get out of the way of the human cannonball.
Smitty dove forward with such force that missing Timpoochee he lost his balance and crashed head first into the foot of the ship’s mast.
He fell to the deck and lay there motionless, unconscious.
Timpoochee jumped to his feet, looked around the deck for other demons ready to finish what the fat sailor started.