Jack meanwhile leaped to where Mr. Temple was trying to pull “Black George” from his son. But neither wrestler was willing to release his grip.
“We’ve got to get under shelter, Bob,” cried Jack. “Break away.”
“Let me alone,” panted the big fellow. “I’ve got him now. Ah.”
And with a sudden mighty heave, Bob rose upward. “Black George” rose upward, too. Over
Bob’s head he went hurtling through the air. They all turned to look. There was a cry of anguish. Then a thud. Out of the engine room door Engineer MacFinney, emerging at that crucial moment, was met by the body of “Black George.” Both fell to the deck together, then rolled backward down the engine room steps.
Several shots from the direction of the Chinese thudded into the bulwark. Frank replied.
“One of them behind the derrick has got a revolver,” cried Frank, pumping several more shots into the derrick mast. “Keep up the fire on his position, Jack, so he can’t take aim. I’ve got to reload.”
Jack pressed the trigger. No result. He tried again.
“It’s jammed,” he groaned. “Mr. Temple, try your revolver.”
The respite was enough for the armed Chinaman. Perhaps he saw Frank working frantically to put a fresh clip of cartridges in his automatic. He fired, just as Mr. Temple raised his revolver. The bullet sent the weapon spinning. A yell of triumph went up from the concealed Chinese.