Convoyed by his fishing fleet, Mascola came steadily on. Cruising to the seaward of the cannery boats he circled, laid to and critically surveyed the bobbing lights in the narrow channel which was flanked on both sides by saw-toothed reefs. The fish were coming from the north and west. Doubtless the American fisherman already had them well "chummed up" with their live bait. He would force an entrance among the cannery boats if they did not give way and take their school. He had done it before. It was simple enough. Directing his boats to follow, he led them on.

Kenneth Gregory stood in the bow of the Pelican with a megaphone and directed the position of the boats which made up his first line of defense. His plan of keeping Mascola away from his fishing fleet was nothing more or less than just straight football formation, with an augmented line to withstand the opposing pressure. The Pelican formed the center of the wedge. To her right and left followed the heavy Diesel-motored vessels with the Curlew and Snipe guarding the extreme ends. Behind the first line came the reserve which closely covered the fishing-boats cruising the center area. Every boat was at its proper station, awaiting the signal from the Pelican.

It came with Gregory's word to Howard: "All right, Tom. Let's go."

He stood at Howard's side as the fisherman whistled for sea-way and moved his vessel forward with the fleet flanking him astern in V formation. Mascola's boats gave no heed to the signal save to draw closer together and slacken speed as they entered the narrow channel.

Again the cannery boats shrieked a warning and the wedge narrowed with the waterway until only the bare width of a boat separated the beams of the defending vessels. Dead ahead, and only a few boat-lengths away, twinkled the lights of the alien fleet. Gregory grasped the rail of the engine-house and braced himself for the shock. The next instant the foremost of Mascola's boats struck the Pelican a glancing blow on the bow.

The heavy fishing-boat quivered from stem to stern from the impact. Then the powerful Diesel engine came into play. The drunken skipper of the Lura felt his craft being shunted to the side. Before he could gather his wits together, another American boat brushed his outside rail and crowded him forcibly against the craft he had endeavored to ram. Caught between the heavy hulls of the Pelican and Albatross, the Lura grated, beam to beam, her timbers creaking and twisting from the strain, her propeller churning the water in a vain effort to break through the tong-like grip of the two boats which disputed her passage.

The drunken crew of the Lura surged to the rail with wild cries of rage. The air was filled with flying missiles. Came the sharp snap of breaking glass and the dull thud of heavy objects hurled from the alien craft to the deck of the Pelican.

"Stay under cover," Gregory commanded the crew. "Stand by if they try to board."

A flying bit of scrap-iron gashed his forehead and caused the blood to trickle over his eyes. He wiped it away with his hand and turned to observe the progress of the other vessels.

The engagement was now general. Mascola's boats were trying to smash their way through. But the V was as yet unbroken. That, he could tell by the solid formation of the boats in reserve. They had not found it necessary to separate.

The night was enlivened with the shrill cries of the aliens. Gregory noticed that there was congestion of lights on his left wing. He reflected suddenly that that was where the Curlew was stationed. And Dickie Lang was on the Curlew. Why had the girl persisted in her determination to take an active part in the conflict? Perhaps she might be already wounded. Hit by a piece of flying iron or a wine-bottle.

"How about it?" Howard's voice recalled him to his plan of battle.

Gregory looked hastily along his front line. "All right," he exclaimed. "Go to it."

The Pelican's whistle shrieked two shrill blasts in reply, the signal for every man at the wheel to go full ahead and put his respective craft hard over.

Mascola cursed volubly at the increasing jumble of his boats. They had already lost their way and were only tending to raise a further barrier to his entrance to the fleet. If he rammed, he must ram his own boats as well as those of the enemy. It flashed over his heated brain that the American had chosen a difficult position for him to break through. The narrowness of the sea-way prevented him from engaging them in mass formation. Then he became conscious of another fact as two sharp whistles sounded above the uproar. His lead boats were being crowded back against their fellows with a twisting movement which was carrying them in the direction of the reef. The channel had been too narrow to break through the solid wall of Diesels. A puff of wind from the southeast helped Mascola to make up his mind. Directing a summary withdrawal, he sped away toward the reef to pilot his boats again to safety from the dangerous shore.

Gregory directed the pivot movement of the cannery wedge until the last of the alien fleet had fled from the channel. In the first preliminary engagement, the enemy had been beaten back. At what cost he must find out at once. As he turned about to signal the Richard, a voice which he recognized as Hawkins', came to him from the darkness astern.

"Bronson's knocked out."

Leaving Howard to supervise the return of the advance line to their original positions, Gregory instructed the sailors to launch a dory over the rail of the Pelican and was rowed away in the direction of the Richard.

Hawkins had but little to tell. The Richard had been plying about according to orders, to report any break in the wedge. As she skirted the right end close to the Snipe, some one had thrown a bottle from the nearest enemy craft. It had struck Bronson in the head. The Richard had drifted backward. Hawkins had thrown out an anchor. That was all. Gregory examined Bronson while Hawkins was speaking. The man was not badly injured. But his loss would be a serious one. Without the speed-boat, Gregory would be greatly handicapped. He set his jaw grimly in the darkness. He could not afford to tie up the Richard. He would run her himself. Directing Hawkins to pull the anchor, he slid into Bronson's seat and focused the rays of his flash-light on the speed-boat's starting mechanism.

"Are you going to try to run her?" Hawkins inquired as he tugged at the hook.

"I am going to run her. Bronson showed me how. It's taking some chance of course. But not so much as tying her up. We've got to have the Richard, Bill. That's all there is to it."

Gregory started the motor and, proceeding at quarter-speed, set off to take Bronson to the Curlew. By so doing, he realized, he could accomplish a dual purpose, find out about the safety of Dickie Lang and leave the boatman in her care. That, he reflected, would give her a safer though more inactive rÔle.

The girl greeted him from the rail of the Curlew. Not a man had been scratched aboard her vessel. Her craft had held the pivot and twisted two of the alien boats until they bumped the reef. A man had been reported injured on the Falcon.

Placing Bronson in the dory, Gregory directed the skiff to be pulled aboard the Curlew. Then he climbed over the rail with Hawkins.

"Bronson was hurt by a flying bottle," he explained. "Will you look after him? I've got to round up the boys and see what's doing."

"You're hurt yourself," Dickie observed as the rays of the cabin lamp fell upon Gregory's face.

"Just a scratch," he said quickly. "If you'll look out for Bronson I'll be off."

Dickie Lang whirled about. "Look out for this man, Jack. See you later, Jones. I'm going with Mr. Gregory."

Reluctantly Gregory consented to allow the girl to accompany him in the Richard. An instant later they were on their way to round up the fleet.

Injuries were few among the crews of the defending vessels. Bruises and cuts summed up the physical damage done by Mascola's men. One of the boats was leaking, but Sorenson was holding the water easily with the pumps. The Falcon's shaft was sprung but the propeller was still turning. To a man, the various captains reported that their men had obeyed instructions to the letter. No acts of violence had as yet been committed by any of the American crews. The ex-sailors, though chafing at their inaction, had assumed the defensive throughout.

The next thing was to arrange to oppose Mascola's next move.

"Whatever he does, he's got to do mighty quick," observed Dickie as the Richard nosed her way among the albacore fishermen. "It's roughing up in the last five minutes and the glass is falling all the time."

"There's only one thing he can do, as near as I can figure," Gregory answered. "And that's to come down the harbor channel and hit us from the stern. If he does that," he added quickly, "we'll have to be careful not to block the sea-way leading into the harbor. My idea is to move farther up. Then if the blow does come, we can go out with the wind and sea through the north channel."

"That's our best bet, unless it's a nor'wester," she agreed. "We've got to keep a way out clear or Mascola will crowd us on the rocks."

The captains of the fishing-boats reported their craft to be better than half laden when the Richard arrived alongside. The fish were still running strong. In another hour, without interference, they might be loaded. At Gregory's direction the albacore fishermen began cruising toward the north channel.

The next thing to do was to marshal the fleet to withstand Mascola's attack from the rear. Owing to the extreme wideness of the waterway, the Italian's boats would now have a better chance. The V must be broadened by the boats hitherto held in reserve. They must be brought up at once. The rising wind and the roughening sea, added to Gregory's inexperience in handling the speed-boat, rendered the mobilization of the cannery fleet not only slow, but extremely hazardous as well.

Before his left end defense was complete, Mascola was bearing down upon his center.