“Are you safe, Danbury?” gasped Wilson.
“What––what’s the trouble? Give me a drink––brandy.”
Wilson turned to the wine closet just beyond the bunk and drew out the first bottle his fingers touched. He placed it to Danbury’s lips, and the latter took several deep swallows of it, spitting indignantly as he thrust it away.
“Darned stuff––Martini cocktails. But––but–––”
Wilson found himself laughing. Nothing Danbury 162 could have said would so prove the inconsequence of his injuries. It relieved his strained nerves until, in reaction, he became almost hysterical.
“What’s the joke?” demanded Danbury, rising to a sitting posture and feeling at the cut in the back of his head. “Where’s the lights? What has happened?”
“A bit of a fight. Can you make your feet?”
Danbury groped for the side of the bunk, and with the help of Wilson stood up. He was at first dizzy, but he soon came to himself.
“If you can walk, come on. I want to look for Stubbs.”
Wilson groped his way into the smoke-filled passageway and across to the other cabin. They found Stubbs lying on the floor unconscious. A superficial examination revealed no serious wound and so, urged on by the increasing noise above, they left him and hurried to the deck. They found the second mate pushing the stubborn group nearer and nearer their own quarters. He was backed by only two men armed with knives and clubs. The gang was hesitating, evidently tempted to turn upon the tiny group, but with the appearance of Wilson and Danbury they pressed at once for the narrow opening.