MEANWHILE the Chinks with absolute imperturbability and under the orders of Charley, were getting the boat on board. As it came on deck Candon appeared.

“She’s come to,” said Candon. “I’ve stuck her in the bunk in the after cabin, but she’s so rattled she won’t speak—just lays there. Hurry up with the anchor, you boys. Listen!”

From shoreward through the night came sounds, far-away shouting and then the throb of a gong.

“Those guys are collecting the hatchet men,” cried Hank, “they’ll maybe try and cut us off from the next bay—there was a boat on the sands. Lord! and I’ve dropped my Lugger.”

“I’ve got mine,” said George.

“Mine’s in the cabin,” said Candon, “get the windlass going and I’ll start the engine. Give me a call when the mud hook’s up and look slippy.” He dived below and as he dived a loose bunt of sail puffed out and a breeze from the nor’west laid its fingers on the cheek of Hank.

“Wind’s coming,” cried Hank. “Leave the windlass, get to the halyards. Hi! Charley there, look alive, man. Your throat and peak halyards—Bud, lay forward and get the gaskets off the jib.” He rushed to the hatch of the engine room. “Candon, below there! Wind’s coming, I’m getting sail on her, that damned junk will lay for us sure and I’m not trusting the engine any.” He rushed back to the wheel and stood whilst the mainsail, fore and jib were got on her. Then came the sound of the winch and the anchor came home whilst the slatting canvas filled and Hank turned the spokes of the wheel setting her on a course south by east.

Candon’s head bobbed up from below.

“I can’t get the durned thing to go,” said he.

“Never mind,” said Hank, “the wind’s freshening.”

As he spoke it breezed up strong, the mainsheet tautened and the boom lifted as the sails bellied hard against the stars and the Wear Jack leaned over to it, boosting the ebony water to snow.

Candon took the wheel from Hank.

“It’s bad luck we have to run right past them,” said he as the next bay opened, showing the junk lit up as if for a festival and the fires on the beach.

“They’ll have had time to collect their wits and man the junk and they’ll know it’s not the police.”

“Oh, we’ve got the heels of them,” said Hank.

“Hope so,” said the other. “Look! they’re getting sail on her.”

In the dim light the vast lug sail of the junk could be seen rising and even before it fully took the wind, she was moving.

“They’re rowing!” cried George. “Look! they’ve got the sweeps out!”

Candon looked. The fag end of a moon rising over the hills of California showed now clearly the junk putting out to sea ahead of them, the flash and movement of the sweeps, the great lubberly lateen sail being trimmed and the foam dashing from the bow.

“They’ve got us,” said Hank, “get your guns ready if it comes to boarding. Where’s yours, B. C.?” “Down in the cabin?—one sec.” He dived below. Then he came up again. “Cabin door’s bolted.”

“Whach you say?” cried Candon.

“Cabin door’s bolted, can’t get in—”

“Maybe it’s stuck,” said Candon. “Don’t bother with it, we’ve no time for fiddling, lay hold of something to bat these chaps with if they try and board. Hell! but she’s racing,—that junk.”

She was. Urged by wind and oars, making ahead to hit the course of the Wear Jack at an acute angle, she seemed bound to do it.

“What’s her game?” asked George.

“Foul us, get broadside on and board us,” replied Candon.

“How’d it be to put her about and get her on a wind?” asked Hank.

“No use, going about would give her lengths—those junks shoot up into the wind like all possessed and the sweeps help—Leave her to me.”

The Wear Jack kept on.

Racing now almost parallel—the junk ahead with sweeps drawn in, the two boats held only half a cable length apart. They could see the junk’s deck swarming, the hatchet men, now that they had got their courage were voicing it, and yells like the strident sound of tearing calico came mixed with the wash of the waves and the beating of a gong. Closer they got, still closer, the Wear Jack gaining under a strengthening flaw of the wind. Then, with a shout and with a lightning movement, Candon, to the horror of the others, put his helm hard over. The Wear Jack checked, shied just like a horse, and with a thunder of slatting canvas, and rattling blocks, plunged at the junk, ramming her abaft the chunky mast. The fellow at the steering sweep shifted his helm to get clear, the junk forged to starboard and the bowsprit of the Wear Jack, like a clutching hand, snapped stay after stay bringing the great sail down like a Venetian blind over the crowd on deck.

“We’re free,” shouted Candon, “bowsprit’s half gone. No matter, get forward, Hank, and clear the raffle!”

Then as the Wear Jack forged ahead, the Kiro Shiwo drifting her faster than the junk, the wind took her sails.

“They aren’t sinking, are they?” cried George.

“Sinking—nothing,” replied B. C., turning his head. “They’ll get back ashore with their sweeps. If they were, it’d be a good job. What’s the damage, Hank?”

“Bob stay gone,” came Hank’s voice. “Bowsprit seems all right—Lord, it’s a miracle.”

Then he came aft having set Charley and the Chinks on repairs.

“B. C.,” said Hank, “you’re a marvel. What put it into your nut to do it?”

“It came to me,” said the other, “they’d have done it to us in another tick, got fast and downed us. Hit first—that’s my motto.”

“Well,” said Hank, “you’ve done it.”

Away back in the moonlight across the heave of the sea, they could make out the dismasted wreck floundering like a drunken thing, listing to starboard with the weight of her broken wing, gastados, out of the running—done for.