ing her gun
and burning her flares in clear water directly off Chance Along. Before
flinging open the door the wreckers had seen through the window what was
taking place in the kitchen.

Flora Lockhart screamed and flung her arms around John Darling, clinging
to him as to her only hope of deliverance; and before he could pull
himself clear of her and draw a pistol from his pocket the infuriated
skipper was upon him. Nolan gripped with his left hand, and struck with
his right fist and his whole body; but, quick as thought, the sailor
twisted, ducked and gripped the other low about the hips. They hurtled
across the room, collided against a chair and crashed to the floor with
Darling on top. Bill Brennen plunged forward to help his master, but was
met half-way by old Mother Nolan, who twined her claws in his whiskers
and hung to him like a cat to a curtain. Nick Leary was about to settle
things when Mary Kavanagh fell upon him with a leg of the broken chair.
Flora alone did not join the fray. She fell back against the wall and
covered her eyes with her hands.

Things were at a deadlock, with the chances good for Darling to break
away from the dazed skipper and make his escape. Bill Brennen was of no
use, for he could not strike the terrible old woman who hung to his
whiskers until he yelled with the pain of it. Nick lay on the floor with
music and stars in his head and conviction that Mary Kavanagh (who even
now knelt on his chest) was a grand young woman entirely. Then young
Cormick entered, took in the vital points of the situation at a glance,
snatched up a stick of firewood, and jumped for the corner where his
brother and the stranger lay clinched. Flora saw it from between her
trembling fingers. She screamed and sprang forward with out-flung arms;
but she was too late. The boy struck once with the billet--and the fight
was ended.

CHAPTER XVII

MARY KAVANAGH USES HER WITS

For half a minute the skipper was mad enough to kill the unconscious
sailor with his hands and feet; but Mother Nolan and Mary Kavanagh
together were equal to the task of holding him and bringing him to a
glimmering of reason. Mother Nolan's tongue did not spare him, even as
her fingers had not spared poor, loyal Bill Brennen's whiskers.

"Would ye be murderin' him?" she cried. "An' him helpless--aye, an' a
better man nor ye be yerself, Denny Nolan. Then ye be no blood an' kin
to me, ye great murderer! Didn't he land ye on the flat o'