The little skipper paused on the first round of the engine-room grating.
“Get forrard when you can,” he whispered. “Open one of those boxes.”
Mike gulped and nodded. He drowsed out the morning hours and climbed to the deck at the first crack of dawn. He waited all the day for a chance to creep through the stokehold without being detected by the two Russian stokers. A second night came and after night the twinkling lights of the Inland Sea. No chance afforded itself in the passage between the Japanese Islands.
It was morning of the third day when Ivan with the long surname dashed thoughts of a discovery in the forehold by summoning all hands to the waist of the Shongpong.
A wild seascape greeted Mike’s eyes as he hurried up the engine-room ladder and braced his spindle legs athwart the planks.
The dusky outlines of the Japanese Coast were fast fading in the west. The wind swung out of a biting north. The sea had been stirred by the tail of a storm. The dingy freighter, with her tipsy funnel and standing rigging, rolled and tossed. She threatened to have the two masts out of her at any moment.
Micky McMasters stood the bridge with Red Landyard. Ivan and all of the Russians, including the crowd from the forecastle, were gathered beneath the shelter of the quarter-deck’s lift. They glanced at Mike Monkey and started chattering in Russian. His eyes lifted over their heads. He gulped and moved his Adam’s apple up and down his scrawny throat. He spat to the deck.
The Chinese flag which had been flying from the jack staff had been replaced by a red oblong. It showed baleful in the rays of the sun.
Mike turned his chin. He looked at Micky. The little skipper’s jaw was square set. His shoulders were thrown back. There was a fighting fire in his eyes.