if it
costs me every boat I have."

In a frenzy of activity he threw the _Richard_ wide open and sped away
to gather his scattered boats for a flank attack upon the alien fleet.

Mascola was in high good humor. His boats were crowding the fishermen
backward in the direction of the reef. Forced to the rocks they would
have no chance in the face of the approaching storm. What was the loss
of the _Florence_ in comparison to the destruction of a dozen or more
fully equipped fishing vessels, laden to the water-line with their
valuable cargoes?

Repairing to the cabin of the _Lura_, the Italian refreshed himself with
a drink. A shout from without brought him hurrying to the deck. Bearing
down upon him at full speed came the cannery fleet. His vessels were
broadside. They would strike him full on the beam. Cut his boats in two.
Mascola shrieked out an order to put about and face the enemy. His
captains sprang to their respective wheels and battled desperately among
themselves for steerage way.

Then came the crash.

Skirting the mass of snapping grinding hulls, Gregory shot through with
the _Richard_ and came among the fishing-boats. Some were already
grazing the reef. A line from the speed-craft pulled them again to
safety and launched them around Mascola's rear. Fighting their way
through the press of the alien craft they circled and renewed the attack
from the opposite flank. Mascola's fleet was caught broadside between
the Americans.

The din of the battle mingled with the roar of the wind. Again men met
over the rail. Knives flashed in the sullen glare from the burning
_Florence_. Pistol shots echoed above the tumult and the air was filled
with flying splinters.

Slowly and inexorably Mascola's fleet was ground back. An alien craft,
reaching the clear space to the rear of the battle line, turned hastily
about and fled down the narrow channel leading to the sea. Another
followed. Still another.

Mascola strove vainly with shouts and curses to stem the tide of his
retreating vessels, but the boats brushed by him and continued on their
way. Soon the exodus became a rout with hull scraping hull in the effort
of the alien boats to gain sea-way in the channel.

In a few minutes the last of Mascola's fleet, leaking badly and settling
low in the water, lumbered by with rapidly pulsing motor in the
direction of Northwest Harbor.

"We beat him at his own game." Kenneth Gregory repeated the words again
and again. Bloo