“There’s three barb’ry lions, he says,” Keighley explained rapidly, “an’ two trucks o’ nine trained leopards, an’ some big gorillas an’ half a circus goin’ back to Hagen—what’s-his-name, in Hamburg. We’ll have to flood her down without openin’ up. Smoke chokes them brutes off like kittens.”
They stood beside the open hatch, in the fading light, and looked down into the dark cargo room. They could see faintly the ends of the box cages in which the animals were penned; and they could hear, not faintly, the uproar of a panic-stricken menagerie frenzied by the smell of fire. They could not see the deck below, though the hatch that led to it was open. Keighley sniffed. “It’s sackin’.” He turned to his men. “Get yer axes. Bring yer lamps. Couple up the six-inch line.”
They turned back to the bulwarks, shoving aside the sailors. There was the noise of a scuffle, the cry of an angry oath—and a man ran across the deck and dodged behind the steam-winch that stood beside the hatch. He was pursued by a helmeted fireman who came cursing.
“Here!” Keighley caught the fireman by the shoulder as he passed. “What’re yuh doin’.”
It was “Shine.” He cried, “That’s Doherty. That’s the damn bug that—Nab ’m, Turk.” He struggled to get free of Keighley’s grip, swearing like a street gamin. “Yuh double-crosser!” he yelled at Doherty. “Yuh dirty back-capper! Let me at ’m.”
Keighley turned to Lieutenant Moore. “Bring that man here,” he said.
But Doherty did not wait to be surrounded. He leaped to the open hatch, caught the rung of the iron ladder and swung down into the hold.
“What’s he doing here?” the chief asked.
“He was loadin’,” someone answered.
“Haul him up out o’ that,” Keighley ordered.