two Flemings, sir, and Gallagher, and the cook,
and Neidlinger, and Mack, but he won't last long."

"Do you think they're likely to hurt the boy?"

"Not unless they get to drinking, sir. They want him for a hostage. But
there has been a lot of drinking. You can't tell what they will do when
they're in liquor."

I came to an impulsive decision. We couldn't leave Jimmie to his fate.
The men were ready to give up the fight if the thing could be put to
them right. The time to strike was now, in the absence of Bothwell,
while they were out of heart at their failure.

Why shouldn't I go down into the forecastle and see what could be done?
That there was some danger in it could not be denied, but not nearly so
much as if the Russian had been down there.

I was an officer of the ship, and though that would have helped me
little if they had been sure of victory it would have a good deal of
weight now.

Blythe would, I knew, forbid me to go. Therefore I did not ask him. But
I took Yeager aside and told him what I intended.

"I'll likely be back in half an hour, perhaps less. I don't want you to
tell Sam unless he has to know. Don't let him risk defeat by attempting
a rescue in case I don't show up. Tell him I'm playing off my own bat.
That's a bit of English slang he'll understand."

"Say! Let me go too," urged the cattleman, his eyes glistening.

"No. We can't go in force. I'm not even going to take a weapon. That
would queer the whole thing. It's purely a moral and not a physical
argument I'm making."

He did not want to see it that way, but in the end he grumblingly
assented, especially when I put it to him that he must stay and keep an
eye on Bothwell.

While Blythe was down in his cabin getting a shave I watched my chance
and slipped down to the main deck. Cautiously I ventured into the
forecastle, tiptoeing down the ladder without noise.

"Dead as a door nail. That makes seven gone to Davy Jones's locker," I
heard a despondent voice say.

"'E could sing a good song, Mack could, and 'e carried 'is liquor like a
man, but that didn't 'elp 'im from being shot down like a dog. It'll be
that wye with us next."

"Stow that drivel, cookie," growled a voice which I recognized as
belonging to the older Fleming. "You're nice, cheerful company for
devils down on their luck. Ain't things bad enough without you croaking
like a sky pilot?"

"That's wot I say, says I; we'll all croak before this blyme row is
over," Higg