"Confound it, yes. But where shall we go?"
"What's that? Listen, Sam."
From below and to the left of us there came a sound as of some one moving. We could hear stealthy voices in animated whisper.
"I see their game," Blythe murmured in my ear. "Those fellows on deck are to keep us busy pot-shotting us while the rest climb up from below and close with us when we're not looking."
A bullet zipped through a window and left a little round hole. It must have passed between our heads.
"Hot work," said the Englishman coolly, putting down his rifle and taking up a revolver and a cutlas. "We'd better sally out and have a look at the gentlemen who are climbing up the stanchions. You take that side and I'll take this."
We were not a moment too soon. As I peered over the bridge rail an outstretched hand was reaching for a hold. Instantly it was withdrawn. The moonlight poured like a spotlight on the uplifted face of the sailor Neidlinger. Never have I seen a look more expressive of stupid, baffled surprise. His mouth was open, his eyes popping. But when I made a motion to aim my revolver he slid down the stanchion with a rush, knocking over the fellow supporting him from below.
I paid no more attention to him, for the feet of those who had been shooting at us were already scurrying forward.
"Blythe," I called in warning.
But the captain was engaged with a mutineer who had climbed up in the way Neidlinger had attempted. A second man—and I saw in an instant that it was Caine—was astride the rail on his way to support the first. Half way over he had stopped to take a shot at Sam.