“It’s all right, Johnson,” he said, sweeping the galley with a quick look. “Somebody shot at us just now, and we thought he might have ducked in here. Of course, you didn’t see anybody?”
Johnson’s meat cleaver hit the deck with a loud clang.
“Lawsy-me, C’mandah!” he quavered. “Ah sho’ thought you-all was de killah. Yassah! But ah raickon he was de one dat scooted by de po’thole, right aftah de shot! Ah jes’ happened ter look out....”
“Which way did he go?” Don snapped, turning back to the doorway.
“He was haided aft, C’mandah,” answered the colored man. “Ah jes’ seen somethin’ white scootin’ past!”
“Come on, Red!” said Don, stepping out on deck. “We’ll try the radio shack. It’s part of this same superstructure, and our last bet. Hope you kept an eye on it, while I was in the galley!”
“I did,” answered Red. “The only door is on this side, too. Got your flashlight ready? The place looks pitch dark!”
By this time, shouts and the sound of running feet were closing in from all sides. The twin pistol shots had roused the whole ship’s company.
And now, quite unintentionally, Red Pennington made a grandstand play.
Thinking only to save Don from the killer’s bullets, he slammed open the radio shack door and charged through, head down, like a football tackle. There followed a yell and the thud of heavy bodies striking the deck. An instant later half a dozen men headed by Don Winslow piled into the narrow compartment.