“A fine place for defense,” commented Jack, looking about him.

“If we keep down, they may not even discover us,” said Mr. Temple.

The front wall of the little radio room was composed of stout wooden panelling to half a man’s height from the floor with glass above. Mr. Temple, Bob and Jack knelt or crouched behind this protective screen, their heads showing just above it, as they looked along the deck toward the forecastle where the crew was housed. The forecastle door was closed.

On the narrow deck below were two immense hatches opening into the hold where when the trawler was legitimately employed, fish would be packed. But “Black George” used that big hold in which to pack Chinese coolies. Beyond the hatches rose a stout derrick, and beyond that the forecastle. Behind the bridge and the radio room, or aft in the trawler, lay the engine room. That way the view was cut off by the blank wall of the radio room against which stood the instruments which Frank was now trying to use.

“Listen,” whispered Jack. “Frank’s talking.”

All three withdrew their gaze from the deck and glanced around.

“He’s got the Sub Chaser,” whispered Bob, gleefully. “Say, this is too easy. Why, we’ll have help here before the Chinese ever realize what has happened. Hear that. Old Frank’s giving the Sub Chaser our bearings right now, just as Murphy gave them to him.”

A slight scratching sound caused Jack to face about in alarm. The door from the bridge stood slightly ajar, as they had left it on entrance. He listened. Someone was creeping up the ladder. Now he was on the bridge, creeping on hands and knees toward the door. Jack nudged Bob who was next to him, and laid a hand on his lips. They as well as Mr. Temple who was farthest away were all crouched so low to avoid being seen from the deck that they themselves could not look out.

In the silence Frank’s voice rang clearly:

“Prisoners, I tell you. Yes, that’s our position. What’s that? I can’t hear you. Hurry. This is ticklish. We’ve got their radio room, yes. They haven’t discovered us yet. But when they do, they’ll cut off our juice. We’ll hold out, all right. But come your fastest.”

The creeping sound outside had ceased. Jack could bear the anxiety no longer. He raised his head cautiously. Nobody in sight as the deck came into view. The door of the forecastle still was closed. He rose a trifle higher to bring the bridge into view. Then he yelled as the door was dashed inward against him, knocking him to the floor.

“Black George,” tall, powerful, his head bandaged, his eyes aflame with maniacal rage, stood swaying in the little doorway, crouched to spring.

Bob sprang forward. He had given his revolver, the one taken from “Black George’s” room, to Frank. He had retained the long knife, but the unaccustomed weapon lay on the floor where he had placed it when he knelt, forgotten. He was unarmed. Mr. Temple shouted in alarm, and raised his revolver to fire. Then he dropped it again. He would hit his son.

Bob’s right fist shot out, but “Black George” dodged and the blow slid harmlessly over his shoulder. With a snarl, “Black George” flung his arms about Bob’s waist. They reeled out to the bridge, tight-locked together, swayed a moment on the edge, and then fell with a crash to the deck at the foot of the ladder.

It all happened so suddenly that by the time he could regain his feet and dash out to the bridge, Jack was too late to prevent the disaster. Revolver in hand, Mr. Temple was a step ahead of Jack and started down the ladder, with eyes only for the two figures below, apparently not much hurt by the fall and writhing now on the deck. But Jack saw what the older man missed, and shouted a warning.

“Look out, Mr. Temple, here they come.”

Frank had heard the shouts. With a last word to the Sub Chaser, he ceased radioing and ran out on the bridge. He too saw the menace, and realized there was no time to lose.

For out of the forecastle, aroused by the shouts, seemed literally to boil a dozen Chinamen.

Throwing up his revolver, Frank fired over their heads to scare them. Jack did likewise. Then both boys leaped to the deck beside Mr. Temple, who, oblivious of all but the danger to his son, was bending over the latter as he threshed about at grips with “Black George.”

Some of the Chinamen sprang behind the derrick. Others flung themselves down behind coils of rope, several of which lay about the deck. In a twinkling the deck was cleared. Not a human mark was left to shoot at. Were they armed? That was the question the boys anxiously asked themselves. The answer came quickly, not in bullets, but in a knife that whizzed unpleasantly close to Jack’s head, burying itself inches deep in the bulwark behind him, where it stuck quivering, and in another that struck the deck at Frank’s feet and would have caught him in the stomach had he not leaped backward in the nick of time.

“Fire a couple of shots to scare them, Frank,” panted Jack, whose chest was laboring with the excitement. “Keep them down while I help Bob. We’ve got to get under shelter.”

Obediently, Frank sent a bullet pinging into the derrick mast and another into a coil of rope. The latter shot brought a howl of fright, and a Chinaman darted from behind the rope and like a rabbit into the open forecastle door. Frank sent another bullet into the deck behind him to hasten his flight. The shots had a salutary effect, not a Chinaman so much as poked forth an arm to fire weapon or throw knife.

Jack meanwhile leaped to where Mr. Temple was trying to pull “Black George” from his son. But neither wrestler was willing to release his grip.

“We’ve got to get under shelter, Bob,” cried Jack. “Break away.”

“Let me alone,” panted the big fellow. “I’ve got him now. Ah.”

And with a sudden mighty heave, Bob rose upward. “Black George” rose upward, too. Over Bob’s head he went hurtling through the air. They all turned to look. There was a cry of anguish. Then a thud. Out of the engine room door Engineer MacFinney, emerging at that crucial moment, was met by the body of “Black George.” Both fell to the deck together, then rolled backward down the engine room steps.

Several shots from the direction of the Chinese thudded into the bulwark. Frank replied.

“One of them behind the derrick has got a revolver,” cried Frank, pumping several more shots into the derrick mast. “Keep up the fire on his position, Jack, so he can’t take aim. I’ve got to reload.”

Jack pressed the trigger. No result. He tried again.

“It’s jammed,” he groaned. “Mr. Temple, try your revolver.”

The respite was enough for the armed Chinaman. Perhaps he saw Frank working frantically to put a fresh clip of cartridges in his automatic. He fired, just as Mr. Temple raised his revolver. The bullet sent the weapon spinning. A yell of triumph went up from the concealed Chinese.

It was a critical moment. Another such shot, and the Chinese would be encouraged to break from cover and make a rush across the deck. Frank succeeded in reloading. But he was trembling so much from excitement that he could not steady his hand sufficiently to pump his bullets into the derrick mast as before, and the shots went high.

“This way, lads, quick,” cried a voice.

It was Matt Murphy. He stood aft at the stern post, beckoning, and beside him was the fat little Doctor Marley, white with fright, trembling, wringing his hands. Bob, Jack and Mr. Temple started towards him. Frank who had taken one swift glance around, called that he would guard their rear and, sending an occasional shot along the deck, walked backward after his companions.

“Come on, come on,” called Murphy’s voice impatiently.

What did he want? What was his intention? Frank found time to wonder. Nevertheless, he did not relax his vigilance. Sending several more shots along the deck, he bumped into a form and whirled about. It was Murphy. Then the boy saw a boat in the water below, with the doctor and Mr. Temple already in it, Jack climbing over the thwarts and Bob sliding down the rope.

A yell of rage went up from several Chinese sufficiently courageous to peer from their hiding places and realize that their prey were escaping.

“Give ’em another shot to hold them,” commanded Murphy.

Frank complied.

Several Chinese who had gained their feet and started forward threw themselves prone again on the deck.

“Now give me that gun,” said Murphy. “I fixed your friend’s gun for ’im, so ye’ll have one in the boat. And down the rope with ye, an’ cast off.”

“But, but——”

“No buts about it,” said Murphy, roughly. “I heard ye callin’ for help an’ I want none of Uncle Sam’s men puttin’ me in jail for the rest of me life. Over ye go, Jonah, an’ good luck to ye.”