Night brought some relief from the heat. The Japan current was swinging along the American shore. A breeze sprang up. The ship rolled. Lurid oaths from the Russians came down the rusty ventilators. This was music to the castaways’ ears.
Midnight and eight bells brought diversion. Running feet sounded on the ship’s planks. A muffled cannon-shot echoed from the distance. A shell burst over the freighter’s rigging.
Clanging bells for more speed drove Micky from the engine-room into the stokehold.
“A gunboat!” he exclaimed. “We’re being chased!”
“Ah thought we would be!” rasped Mike Monkey. “Shall Ah draw the fires?”
The engineer’s question was answered by a curdling oath from Ivan. The leader of the Bolsheviki descended to the stokehold door. He peered through the gloom.
“You heard the bells!” he snarled through his beard. “You all die if you don’t keep up steam. We’re going to escape from the cutter. Fortunately it is an old one.”
Micky McMasters shook his head toward his two mates. He followed the Russian into the engine-room and picked up an oil can as Ivan motioned for the sentries to get on deck. A silence fell upon the brooding ocean.
Red Landyard appeared between the stokehold and the engine-room. He braced his legs and toyed with a short iron bar. Now and then he stared forward to where the crimson light glowed from the fire doors. The steam mounted in the gages. Mike Monkey worked alone. The Scotch-Irish engineer had evolved an idea out of the situation. He had sent Red to the stokehold door in order to stand guard.
“What is ’e doing?” asked Micky in a whisper.