"Safest way, I suppose. Knock a hole in her bottom first, set her on fire, and then get out," I said.
"But the girl?" asked Slade.
"Oh, Yellow Dog will take care of her—probably take her along with him in the boats."
"Not if I know it. Man, do you know what that means?" he panted, straining at his wrist lashings.
"Well, it's a mighty bad outlook, but if you can stop it, sing out; I'll help," I said.
The smoke grew more dense in the confined space. The noise of hoisting gear died away, and the shouts of men from a distance told that they already had the small boats over, and were alongside.
Slade strained away at his lines, and I did, also, but we were fast. Gantline muttered on the transom, and began to choke with the smoke. Suddenly a form burst into the room. It was Oleson, the carpenter. He slashed at our lashings with a heavy knife, and in a moment we were free.
We dragged ourselves out on deck, crawling to keep below the rail, so that we could not be seen from the small boats. Two forms lay right in front of a door—two of our men who had been killed. Not a sign of a wounded Chink, or dead one, either. They had taken them along if there were any.
"I cut loose," said Oleson; "rubbed the lashings on a broken bottle they left on deck near me. They've knocked a few holes in her, and it's up to us to stop them up before the schooner sinks. She's on fire forward—whole barrel of oil poured over her decks and lit up before——"
"Looks like they have her either way, then," said Gantline. "But we'll try the fire first, and take a chance at her settling under us."