The boys whispered agreement. They turned, so that Rick felt Scotty's arm on his left side and Zircon's on his right. He stooped and pawed through the clutter on the deck. His groping hand found a slender piece of wood that he rejected at first. Then, when he failed to find anything else, he groped around and found it again. At best, it was a poor weapon.
They settled down to wait. The junk was just barely making headway, and as they stood waiting, their vision cleared a little. Or perhaps distant lights on the shore provided faint illumination. Rick could make out two men poling the junk from the stern.
Far out on the water came the sound of a fast-moving craft of some sort, then a searchlight probed the water briefly. From aft came a muttered exclamation, then rapid orders in liquid Cantonese.
Scotty's elbow dug into Rick's back. "They're coming," he said tensely.
Dark figures hurtled at the three.
A flying body slammed into Rick, smashing him to the deck. He lost his stick, but struck out with his fists. He heard Zircon roar like a wounded bull.
Rick fought valiantly. Two men were on him, struggling to tie him with lengths of rope. Once he felt the rope pulled across his cheek, leaving a burning sensation. He sensed rather than heard the crashing and shouting around him. Then he wriggled out from under his assailants and staggered to his feet. Instantly one of the men was upon him again.
"Fall flat!" Zircon bellowed.
Rick did so, on the instant. There was the sound as of a baseball bat smacking a steer and for an instant the deck was miraculously clear. Zircon had found a piece of two-by-four lumber about eight feet long, and he was swinging it like a flail.
The accented voice called, "Drop it or we shoot!"