“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.
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.