Cunningham fired a shot at the ceiling, and a dozen of the crew came piling in from the forward end of the passage. The fighting stopped magically.
“You fools!” cried Cunningham in a high, cracked voice. “To put our heads into hemp at the last moment. If anything happens to young Cleigh, back to Manila you go with the yacht! Clear out! At the last moment!” It was like a sob.
Jane, still entranced, saw Cleigh stoop and put his arms under the body of his son, heave, and stand up under the dead weight. He staggered past her toward the main salon. She heard him mutter.
“God help me if I’m too late—if I’ve waited too long! Denny?”
That galvanized her into action, and she flew to the light buttons, flooding both the dining and the main salons. She helped Cleigh to place 253 Dennison on the lounge. After that it was her affair. Dennison was alive, but how much alive could be told only by the hours. She bathed and bandaged his head. Beyond that she could do nothing but watch and wait.
“I wouldn’t mind—a little of that—water,” said Cunningham, weakly.
Cleigh, with menacing fists, wheeled upon him; but he did not strike the man who was basically the cause of Denny’s injuries. At the same time Jane, looking up across Dennison’s body, uttered a gasp of horror. The entire left side of Cunningham was drenched in blood, and the arm dangled.
“Flint had a knife—and—was quite handy with it.”
“For me!” she cried. “For defending me! Mr. Cleigh, Flint caught me on deck—and Mr. Cunningham—oh, this is horrible!”
“You were right, Cleigh. The best-laid plans of mice and men! What an ass I am! I honestly thought I could play a game like this without hurt to anybody. It was to be a whale of a joke. Flint——”