“Well, duck if he begins shooting,” said the chief officer, resignedly. “Stay where you are, Hayward—you follow up, Bob.” He went noiselessly as a cat down the narrow alley-way to the cabin door.
“I don’t think I’ll try it,” he mused under his breath. “Better to go in unannounced.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Wally, you get the light switched on as soon as you’re in the cabin.”
In his day Mr. Dixon had played Rugby football; in later years he had been mate of a sailing ship, and had learned in that rough school how to use his weight effectively. He drew back a pace or two now, and then flung his shoulder against the door. The carefully-weakened hinges gave, and the attacking party crashed into the cabin.
They had a momentary vision of a flash of light; a guttural exclamation came from the port-hole. Then there was black darkness and the sound of men struggling. Jim was close at Mr. Dixon’s shoulder; Wally, groping round the ruined door, was endeavouring to find the electric-light button. Then came another flash of light, and a report that sounded deafening, in the tiny cabin.
“You brute, you’ve got me!” said Mr. Dixon, between his teeth.
Light flashed out as Wally found the button. The cabin was dim with smoke, and acrid with the smell of gunpowder. Jim saw a levelled revolver-barrel gleam in the blue haze; then he sprang past the chief officer, and hit wildly at a face above it. The revolver clattered to the floor. There was a thud, as the man who held it went down in a corner.
“Hold him, Wally!”
The boys were both on the struggling form; the sailor, behind them, gripping the man’s legs. The unequal fight was only momentary.
“I give in,” said the man. He was suddenly limp and powerless in their hands, panting heavily. His face was turned from them as he huddled in the corner.
“Got any more revolvers?” Jim asked.