ed
in. Clutching the bit of paper which was tightly rolled and wrapped in a
square of oiled linen, Jack pushed it through a ragged crevice in the
shutter.

It was gravely doubtful whether the men would discover the message in
the gloom of their prison. It might fall to the floor and be trampled
unperceived. And yet Jack Cockrell could not make himself believe that
deliverance would be thwarted. He said a prayer and waited with his ear
against the wall of the forecastle. There he leaned through an agonized
eternity as the slow moments passed. It was like the ordeal of a
condemned man who hopes that a blessed reprieve may save him, in the
last hour, from the black cap and the noose.

Up aloft the pirate seamen were slashing the torn canvas with their
dirks and casting loose the gaskets. Presently they began to come down
to the deck, one by one. Some whispered word must have passed amongst
them, because they drifted aft as by a common impulse although it was
not yet the hour to change the watch. Their gunner's mate, a gigantic
mulatto with a broken nose, went to the poop when Ned Rackham crooked
his finger and these two stood aside, beyond earshot of Captain Wellsby,
while they conferred with heads together.

"They will strike first," Jack whispered to himself.

The misty daylight had not darkened. The decks were not yet dusky with
the shadows which Jack had hoped might enable him to approach the
forecastle door in his brave endeavor to unbar it. The plans were all
awry. Tears filled his eyes. And then there came to his ear a muffled
knock against the other side of the forecastle planking.

Once, twice, thrice! The signal was unmistakable. A little interval and
it was repeated.

Softly the trembling lad tiptoed to the corner of the forecastle house
and peered around it to look for the sentries. Two of them had moved a
few yards away to join a group which gazed aft as if expecting a
summons from Ned Rackham on the poop. The third sentry leaned against
the forecastle door, a cutlass at his belt. He was a long, bony man with
a face as yellow as parchment from the Spanish fever and it was plain to
read that there was no great strength in him.

Faithful Joe Hawkridge sat astride the breech of the nine-pounder at
which he had been so busily engaged earlier in the afternoon. He
appeared to be an idler who merely looked on but he was watching every
motion, and that hard, canny face of his had, for once, forgot to grin.
Re