ing over his
shoulder:

"Hold them back, bos! We'll get the boat free!"

The boatswain stopped short and wheeled about. Martin's momentum
carried him several steps farther, then he too checked his stride.
Intuitively, he knew his place was at the boatswain's side.

The boatswain was on one knee, shooting rapidly at a cluster of
retreating figures. The Black Cruiser was still emptying itself.
Everywhere before the saloon, it seemed to Martin, were darting forms.

From behind telegraph poles, from kneeling figures, came the spurting
flames of revolver shots. The reports were a sharp rattle. Martin
dropped to his knee and raised his arm. The gun in his hand leaped
like a live thing as he pulled the trigger. He was given entirely over
to the battle lust of the moment. He was cool, he was happy, he
laughed aloud, and he shot rapidly, with intent to kill, at the enemy
figures yonder.

The police whistles sounded insistently, more shrilly. Martin sensed
there was a commotion a block or so down the street--approaching
police, he knew.

The boatswain was on his feet and backing toward the dock. His voice
warned Martin----

"Avast there, nipper!"

Martin found his feet also and commenced to retreat. One of the enemy
figures was coming straight for them, ignoring the shots. There was
something distinctive, contemptuous, about that charge. Martin knew
the approaching figure was Carew. He took aim, crooked his finger, and
found his weapon empty. He drew back his arm and hurled the gun
straight at the other, and at the same instant the charging man shot.
And darkness enveloped Martin as he fell.

CHAPTER VII

THE MATE OF THE BRIG _Cohasset_

Martin returned to consciousness gradually, and _via_ the nightmare
route. He was being put to torture. He was bound, helpless, and a
steel band encircled his head, and sharp spikes were probing his brain.

He was surrounded by gibbering and leering slant-eyed yellow faces;
they screamed at him without letup, and his ears rang with their
fiendish outcry. But mingled with, and woven into, that barbarous howl
was a softer and friendlier note, at which his groping wits clutched
eagerly; it was a clear, musical chant, and somehow, it soothed his
hurts, and gave him courage to face his torturers. The yellow faces
grimaced horridly at him. He was being roughly rolled about. So, he
opened his eyes.

He was staring upward at the bare, wooden bottom-side of a b