learly visible schooner, debating the wisdom of
attempting to carry her by boarding. Bill Blunt joined him, and the old
sea dog hitched his trousers, shifted his quid, and hinted:

"Skipper talked 'bout some dawg a-bitin', didn't he, sir?"

"Halleluja! Yes," shouted Rolfe, suddenly reminded of what he should
never have forgot. "Let's see what the big Dutchman knows about dogs!"

Without raising his voice, he sent Bill Blunt around to the crew, and
like brown phantoms the little Javanese sailors worked at the gig falls,
flitting here and there, and appearing twice as strong in numbers as
they were, showing themselves over the rail, yet trying to give an
impression of aiming at secrecy. And when the gig dropped into the
water, on the blind side from the schooner, all save two slipped down
into it and lay along the bottom boards, leaving the boat apparently
manned by two oarsmen and the stout old navy man. Jerry Rolfe gave a
final look around and below, to satisfy himself that there was nothing
in the ship accessible to possible marauders, then he joined the men in
the boat's bottom and gave the word to shove off. Keeping on the edge of
the moonlight, dodging between light and shadow, the party pulled along
past the schooner and landed abreast of the stockade, while the gig kept
on with noisy oars as if bound straight up the river in search of Barry
and help.

With the mate and Blunt there were eight men, and besides the officers'
own two revolvers, there were no arms save boat-stretchers, for the
party with Barry had taken all available weapons. But the lack was soon
to be made up. Rolfe left his men in the bush and went alone to the
great gate, where the guardian peered over at his soft hail, alert as if
he were but one of many watchmen instead of being, as it seemed he was,
the only one.

"Wassa matta you?" the grinning head whispered.

"Dog bites," replied Rolfe, grimacing as he gave the word, curious yet
unbelieving. His matter-of-fact sailor mind was incapable of completely
throwing out his earlier aversion to Vandersee. He was ready to find now
that this "dog biting" password was simply a piece of theatrical
bunkum. He was to be swiftly put right.

"Ho much he bite?" came the rejoinder, unruffled, without outward
interest.

"Th' whole piece!" growled Rolfe. "Ship's sunk."

"All ri'. Bring men here. Wait till to-morrow. Eve'thing proper. You no
bodder, sar."

"No bother, hey? Damned simple, ain't it?" swo