p of foliage that seemed to hiss with
twanging bowstrings--"then fire all together. That's the next best thing
to a riot gun I can think of." The crew crouched along the broken plank,
every muzzle converged on to a patch of leafy concealment a fathom
square, and the skipper barked:

"Fire!"

Twenty rifles crashed in one tremendous discharge, and the tree ceased
to vomit arrows as if suddenly capped with a vast extinguisher. But at
the same moment the flames roared in through the broken bulwarks and
drove every man away, scorched and singed. Houten handled his rifle
expertly and unhurriedly, though his fat face and immense body streamed
sweat at every pore, and his clothes were steaming with the fierce heat.
Blood dripped from his injured arm, but gave him not the slightest
concern. He said nothing, did not attempt to advise Barry, simply kept
up his end as one man of the crew, as if the last thing on earth he
worried about was the imminent destruction of thousands of guilders in
property. And Barry gave him silent thanks, untrammelled in his command
of the unequal fight. His own keen eyes told him the _Barang_ was
doomed; and any chance remaining for the crew hinged on that big launch
alongside. He peered over the rail. The launch was smoking. Her line was
almost burned through.

"Gordon and Little, follow me quickly," he cried, swiftly making his
decision. "Rolfe, Blunt, haul in on that line--easy now, or you'll break
it--and Mr. Houten, here's my cabin key. Take some men and get your gold
dust out of the safe."

Houten's streaming face lighted in a fat smile, and he beamed his
appreciation of Barry's thoughtfulness for his employer's interests
under the terrible circumstances. The mate and Bill Blunt hauled
cautiously on the launch painter until the big boat bumped alongside,
her white paint blistered and blackened, her white canvas awning a
tattered torch of smoldering rags. Then Barry sprang up, threw himself
over the rail, and Little and Gordon followed in silence. A small brown
man jumped after them and went directly to the launch's engine.

"Good man!" breathed Little, suddenly realizing that none of the others
knew anything about a steam engine. He gasped and gazed in awe at a
tongue of fire that snaked up the brigantine's side, twisted about the
fore rigging and roared about the tall masts of pine.

The fires were banked. The native engineer opened them up and applied a
small patent blower, while Barry a