. One dropped behind a boat here, another there. Some
crouched close to the deckhouse. Bullets sang about our ears from
invisible foes.

It looked as if their intention was to pick us off without exposing
themselves. The thing could be done too. For a rifle ball would tear
through the flimsy woodwork of our shelter as if it had been paper.

"We've got to get out of here," I told my friend.

"Confound it, yes. But where shall we go?"

"What's that? Listen, Sam."

From below and to the left of us there came a sound as of some one
moving. We could hear stealthy voices in animated whisper.

"I see their game," Blythe murmured in my ear. "Those fellows on deck
are to keep us busy pot-shotting us while the rest climb up from below
and close with us when we're not looking."

A bullet zipped through a window and left a little round hole. It must
have passed between our heads.

"Hot work," said the Englishman coolly, putting down his rifle and
taking up a revolver and a cutlas. "We'd better sally out and have a
look at the gentlemen who are climbing up the stanchions. You take that
side and I'll take this."

We were not a moment too soon. As I peered over the bridge rail an
outstretched hand was reaching for a hold. Instantly it was withdrawn.
The moonlight poured like a spotlight on the uplifted face of the sailor
Neidlinger. Never have I seen a look more expressive of stupid, baffled
surprise. His mouth was open, his eyes popping. But when I made a motion
to aim my revolver he slid down the stanchion with a rush, knocking
over the fellow supporting him from below.

I paid no more attention to him, for the feet of those who had been
shooting at us were already scurrying forward.

"Blythe," I called in warning.

But the captain was engaged with a mutineer who had climbed up in the
way Neidlinger had attempted. A second man--and I saw in an instant that
it was Caine--was astride the rail on his way to support the first. Half
way over he had stopped to take a shot at Sam.

I fired from my hip without waiting to take aim. It was the luckiest
shot of my life. The boatswain's shoulders sagged, his fingers relaxed
so that the weapon clattered on the floor, and slowly his figure swayed
outward. There was no grip to his knees. He toppled overboard, head
first. I heard the plop as his body dived into the sea.

Blythe cut down his man at the same instant.

"Back to the wheelhouse," I shouted.

We were barely in time. T