"Make your way aft," whispered Smith, "We'll pepper 'em from there."
Just as the hatch-cover was burst open the four made a dash for the shelter of the poop-deck. Standish tripped over a ring-bolt and fell headlong, but Smith turned, picked him up as easily as if he were a mere child, and dragged him under cover, to the accompaniment of a regular fusillade of shots from the automatic pistols of the five determined villains.
"What are you afraid of?" shouted one of the men in a guttural voice, for some of the desperadoes were running forward. "Come with me and settle them properly. They have no pistols."
With that the men stopped their flight, hung together for a few seconds, then advanced, firing wildly as they did so.
Fortunately the poop deck was barricaded off by a 5 in. oak bulkhead, sheathed with steel, that extended down to the hold, thus completely isolating the magazine from the after part of the ship.
Revolver in hand Tom Smith waited, but Armitage, in his inexperience, was not so cautious. Raising his weapon he fired into the cluster of advancing men. The revolver did go off this time, with a lurid tongue of flame and a livid report that completely out-voiced the sharp crack of the automatic pistols. But the bullet found no human billet. It had the result of causing the attackers to turn tail and make precipitately for the shelter of the fo'c'sle.
"Pity you didn't reserve your fire, sir," said the policeman reprovingly. "We might have bagged a couple of them at the least."
"I'm sorry," replied Harry.
"Maybe someone ashore will hear the report," continued Smith. "It was like a small cannon going off."
"I'm afraid not," said Jack. "I could only just hear the sound of the first shots, and we are lying less than three hundred yards off. The wind is so high."