But Miles had turned.
“They’ll fire at him,” he said, and clattered down the stairs. Shouts and curses rose to meet him, and outrageous blows set the tower resounding like a drum. Penned at the foot of the stairway, the men were battering the door with boot and gun-butt. And then for the first time, Miles, half laughing, half indignant, saw how the sailor had used him for the trick. These honest mad-caps had rushed in to his rescue; and fairly on the heels of the hindmost, Tony had reached in, stolen out the key, and locked the door.
For a long time it held solidly, while they clamored and pounded. Forming a little phalanx, all hands, they flung at it together; again and again it held, and they fell back, rubbing sore shoulders; till at last hinge or casing crashed, splinters flew, and the captives tumbled through into the sunshine, with an impetus that sent Lazy-Hab rolling on the grass.
“We’ll see!” he cried ferociously, and, bouncing up, ran round the base of the tower.
The others streamed after. On a bare ledge of pink granite, all stood at fault, scanning the empty shore. Then Lazy-Hab, with a short, harsh sound of merriment, pointed calmly. Out in a steel-bright strip of water, a black disc, smaller than the tip of a buoy, bobbed with living regularity.
“Long shot,” he chuckled, “but I’ve hit the kag on the beacon, furder.”
He had swung up his gun, when Miles, breaking through the group, wrenched it from his hands.
“Wha’ d’ ye mean?” bellowed the marksman, raging. “You let a foreign murd’rer—”
“That’s enough!” ordered Miles coldly. “You came near being a home-made one.” He turned on the men, sharp and bitter. “You fellows come to!” he said, and speaking on, with a few domineering words found himself their master.
“That’s right,” growled one. “Talkin’ sense, Mr. Bissant,” another nodded; “told ’em that, myself.” Old Quinn, with a sheepish, absent grin of innocence, smuggled the cartridge from his gun. Their little tumult was over, save in fireside history. And Miles had known his first moment of command.