"I'll be all right in a minute," he said. "Keep going. I can't see very well yet. You say he got through?"
"Yes. He's trying to crowd the fishing fleet to the rocks. Look!"
In the light that the burning vessel astern cast upon the waters ahead, Gregory saw a confused jumble of boats crowded close against the saw-toothed reef.
"Damn him!" he grated. "We'll beat him yet. Slow down. Give me the wheel."
Dickie relinquished the steering-wheel with reluctance.
"We ought to be putting to sea," she observed as a sudden gust of wind and rain assailed them. "This is a bad place to be caught napping."
Gregory's eyes glowed with the lust of battle. "No," he gritted. "We're going to stay and fight. Mascola's not going to win on a fluke if it costs me every boat I have."
In a frenzy of activity he threw the Richard wide open and sped away to gather his scattered boats for a flank attack upon the alien fleet.
Mascola was in high good humor. His boats were crowding the fishermen backward in the direction of the reef. Forced to the rocks they would have no chance in the face of the approaching storm. What was the loss of the Florence in comparison to the destruction of a dozen or more fully equipped fishing
vessels, laden to the water-line with their valuable cargoes?