He sprang back into the bridge and grabbed wildly for the whistle
cord and the black steamer's hoarse whistle began to roar staccato
blasts which echoed and reëchoed into the night. Men were racing about
the deck to the sharp commands of the mate, which were punctuated by
thudding fists and heavy boot toes.
Port and starboard davits creaked outward, and the ropes whined in the
sheaves as the lifeboats raced down and crashed into the water. The
gangplank clattered to the water's edge. The mate ran down it and began
to bawl through his megaphone. Up overhead the big whistle was still
booming.
Up on the bridge Joe Parento, the bootleg king, was gaping open-mouthed
at the lanky captain, whose long arm was still yanking the whistle cord.
"You stoppa that! You heara me? You quit it? You gone _lunatico_?
What's matter you, cap? Cut it out, now!"
He leaped forward and seized the captain's arm with both his own and
dragged it down.
"I'm goin' to stand by, Joe! They's men drowndin' out thar ef we don't
help 'em!"
"Stand by lika the hell!" the Italian jabbered. "You crazy! Swing
'round! Head back out! You hear me, hey?"
[Illustration: _"You crazy!" the Italian jabbered. "Head back out!"_]
He groped in the pocket of his coat and came out with a snub-nosed
automatic.
"Turn her 'round, cap, and don't waste no time, or I blow you to hell!"
His voice was a yelping scream.
The captain sprang toward him with clenched fist and arm doubled back,
ready to strike. A lurid flame burst forth from the blunt muzzle of the
pistol and searing pain jabbed at the left shoulder of the seaman.
"Drop the gun, wop!"
His clenched fist smashed down and the gun exploded in mid-air as it
dropped toward the floor. The sturdy sea-muscled arm lashed upward and
the blocky fist crunched under Parento's chin, lifting him upward from
the floor and propelling him backward. He fell on his back with a thud.
The captain snatched up the fallen pistol and thrust it into the pocket
of his sou'-wester.
The lifeboats were thumping against the vessel's side and grating along
as the riffraff crew returned with the swimmers they had rescued. The
captain picked up the unconscious body of the Italian bootleg king and
strode down the bridge stairs with it under his right arm. A patch
of blood was already oozing out from the burning hole in his left
shoulder, painting the yellow oilskin crimson.
He deposited his unconscious burden upon the deck underneath an
electric light. Walking to the head of the gangplank, he bent to peer
downward, where dripping figures were climbing from the boats upon the
landing platform of the gangplank and starting up toward the deck.
At the head of the line was a man in a blue uniform, and as he stepped
upon the deck he snorted with astonishment, for the menacing figure of
the captain shot out a long arm with a stubby automatic gripped in his
huge fist.
"I'm grabbing for the sky, skipper!" the uniformed man chuckled,
stretching both his hands high overhead.
"What vessel?" snarled the oilskin-clad figure.
"Coast Guard cutter Quadras. We were laying without lights for the
rum-runner Bear, from St. John, when we got rammed by a Jap tramp who
went on and left us."
* * * * *
The blunt nose of the automatic whipped toward the face of the next
gaping man who stepped on the deck.
"Hands up! Get 'em up, I said, damn you!"
The gaunt skipper stepped to the side of the Coast Guard commander and
tapped the back of his coat with the back of his left hand. Finding
no hidden weapons, he thrust the pistol muzzle into the face of the
dumfounded seaman, who had frozen in his tracks at the top of the
gangplank.
"I ain't got no gun, cap!" the man blurted.
"Step ahead, then, you're blocking traffic!"
One by one the others filed up and ranged along the deck, grinning
sheepishly, their hands uplifted.
The Coast Guard commander turned to confront him.
"I give you my word, sir, neither my men nor myself will commit an
overt act. We're too glad to be picked up, no matter who you may be."
The skipper smiled grimly as he thrust the automatic into his pocket.
"At your ease, men. Your arms might get stiff from keepin' 'em up so
long. I hate to do it, but I'm in honor bound to protect my cargo. This
is the rum-runner Bear, with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars'
worth of Canadian Club."
The Coast Guard commander slapped his wet thigh and laughed heartily.
"That's pretty rich!"
A roar went up from the line of men, glad to enjoy a joke on themselves.
Several of the rum vessel's crew came stalking up the gangplank, with
guns and knives gleaming in their hands, only to thrust them out of
sight and join in the laughter. Down on the landing platform the mate
was bawling to the men he had sent to scull the boats to the davit
falls.
In a moment he came up, scowling, only to grin as he saw the good
nature of all hands. With a wave of his arm he sent men to the davits,
and in a few minutes the boats came bobbing up and were swung onto the
deck and made fast.
Joe Parento crawled to his feet and came stumbling toward the group on
the deck with his hand nursing his bruised jaw. He gaped dazedly about
into the grinning faces. He gasped with fright as his eyes rested on
the blotch of blood which had oozed from the captain's left shoulder
and stained his oilskins.
"I no go for to shoot you, cap, honest!" he denied.
"Shut up!" the skipper roared. "Here's your gun! Better toss it over
the side, or you'll get into real trouble with it."
He flung the gun to the Italian, who caught it and threw it over the
rail into the water.
"Is everything snug, mister?" the skipper bawled to the mate.
"Shipshape and Bristol fashion, sir!" the mate answered as he came to
the skipper's side.
"Break out dry clothes for these sailors and find places for 'em to
sleep. Break out a half dozen quarts of whisky and give 'em a nip.
They've been wet and might catch cold."
He spoke kindly to the captured commander.
"If you'll come with me, sir, I'll show you your quarters up alongside
my own, and some dry clothes, and some real stuff, if you'll have it.
We'll be back at the twelve-mile line in an hour or so, and you can
wireless from one of the boats in the row for a cutter to come after
you and your men."
As they walked by the switch-box he reached in and snapped off the
lights. His flash light glowed for a moment as he opened the door of
a cabin and ushered the rescued officer inside. Walking to his own
room, he came out with an armful of clothing and handed them to the
commander, telling him to don them in the dark. Then he lurched to the
ladder and climbed the bridge.
"Half speed, chief, stand by for full!" he growled down the tube.
He swayed back and forth dizzily as his head swam from weakness and
gnawing pain in his left shoulder. The scuff of the Coast Guard
commander's shoes sounded as he climbed the steps and groped along the
bridge. His arm ran around the sagging waist of the skipper.
"Better come on down and rest awhile yourself, sir," he suggested. "I'm
fresh, and I know this Sound as well as you do. I'll con the old tub
out and deliver her in Rum Row."
He supported the faltering steps of the old man down the steps and
along to his stateroom, and then raced back to the bridge. Half
crawling out on the weather apron, he peered and listened into the
impenetrable murk. The black ship swung slowly around to his orders and
began to forge up the Sound out toward the open sea.