eh!" said Wild Bob. "Well, young fellow, can you tell
us what became of that blasted hunchback?"

Martin almost leaped from his chair. What! Had Little Billy escaped?
Did they know what had become of Little Billy? Martin had accepted
without question the fact that Little Billy was dead. The
probabilities, and the boatswain's conviction, had convinced him. But
now...

"I don't know what has become of him," he told Carew. "You ought to
know. He had the watch on deck when you came out of the fog, last
night."

"---- queer!" muttered Carew. Then to Ichi: "I tell you, doctor, he
must have been settled and dumped overside with the rest. We fixed
every one who was awake, except this fellow, Blake. The hunchback must
have been knifed and thrown over without being recognized."

"No, there were only three, and the cripple was not of them," returned
Ichi.

Not of them! Martin's heart was pounding joyfully. Then Little Billy
was alive.

"Well, he isn't on the ship," asserted Carew. "He isn't in the hold
with that fo'c's'le crowd, nor aft, here, nor hidden anywhere about the
vessel. We know that. Let us not waste any more time--we'll get the
information the other way. Call in the minx. Perhaps it will tame
some of that cursed spirit of hers to witness her pretty darling, here,
being made uncomfortable!"

He accompanied his remark with a hateful glance toward Martin, a glance
that was filled with cruel anticipation. But neither look nor words
much disquieted Martin's mounting spirits. "In the hold with the
fo'c's'le crowd!" Carew had said. Then the boatswain would not have to
chance breaking into the forepeak. He need only get into the hold to
join the remnant of the crew, and it was a stout remnant if only three
had been slaughtered. Why, the boatswain must already have joined
them; be leading them now in an attempt to break out of the hold. And
Little Billy was alive, and at large!

Martin wriggled his wrists in the handcuffs and stiffened tensely in
his seat. Almost, he expected to hear that instant the commotions of
battle from the deck, and to see his friends burst into the cabin. He
eyed wistfully the carving-knife on the table and marked it for his
weapon. No, he could contemplate these thugs about him now without
that hopeless sinking of the heart; he could even withstand torture
with fortitude born of hope. For there was a fighting chance.

"Go knock on the door and fetch her out," sai