The next moment they could see Matt Murphy coolly raise his weapon and fire. But not at them. His shot caught the Chinese gunman in the arm, and the latter’s revolver fell into the sea as he seized the injured member and danced about in shrieking agony.
“Look,” cried Frank, “he’s driving them back into the forecastle.”
Murphy was, indeed, driving the Chinese away from the rail. His voice came only faintly to the boat, but its occupants could see him kicking, striking with clubbed revolver, forcing the Orientals below. One by one they disappeared into the forecastle door until the deck was cleared of them. Then Murphy turned, a tiny figure now on the deck, and waved once more to the boat.
“Lay on your oars now, Jack,” advised Bob. “Murphy said to lay here until the Sub Chaser, which had our position, picked us up.”
“So Murphy gave you some explanation about things, hey?” asked Frank. “I’m all at sea all right, in my mind as well as the boat. What’s it all about? Where did he come from so suddenly? How, with that broken arm, did he get this boat lowered? Why did he drive us off the trawler? And why did we come away, anyhow? We were in a ticklish position, but still might have held on until the Sub Chaser arrived. Then we’d have had our birds.”
Bob glanced around the horizon.
“Not a sign of smoke indicating the Sub Chaser,” he said, “unless it’s that tiny film off there”—pointing to the southwest. “What position did the Sub Chaser give, Frank, and how far away was it?”
“That’s the Chaser, all right,” said Frank. “She was southwest from us and about fourteen knots away. Said she’d be up in an hour easy.”
He pulled out his watch.
“Why,” he declared, “it must have stopped. No”—listening—“it’s going all right. But it certainly is hard to believe. Only twenty-five minutes since we left the cabin. I looked at my watch then. And less since I called the Chaser. It’ll be some time before it comes up.”