"What the devil are you up to there?" he called.

The unexpectedness of the challenge disconcerted the men. They had enough

loot. A quick retreat, and Dennison would have had nothing to do but close

the dry-stores door. But middle twenties are belligerent rather than

discreet.

"What you got to say about it?" jeered one of the men, shifting his brace

of bottles to the arms of another and squaring off.

Dennison rushed them, and the mêlée began. It was a strenuous affair

while it lasted. When a strong man is full of anger and bitter

disappointment, when six young fellows are bored to distraction, nothing

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is quite so satisfying as an exchange of fisticuffs. Dennison had the

advantage of being able to hit right and left, at random, while his

opponents were not always sure that a blow landed where it was directed.

Naturally the racket drew Cleigh to the scene, and he arrived in time to

see a champagne bottle descend upon the head of his son. Dennison went

down.

Cleigh, boiling with impotent fury, had gone to bed, not to sleep but to

plan; some way round the rogue, to trip him and regain the treasures that

meant so much to him. Like father, like son. When he saw what was going on

in the passage he saw also that here was something that linked up with his

mood. Of course it was to defend the son; but without the bitter rage and

the need of physical expression he would have gone for the hidden revolver

and settled the affair with that. Instead he flew at the men with the

savageness of a gray wolf. He was a tower of a man, for all his sixty

years; and he had mauled three of the crew severely before Cunningham

arrived.

Why had the mutinous six offered battle? Why hadn't they retreated with

good sense at the start? Originally all they had wanted was the wine. Why

stop to fight when the wine was theirs? In the morning none of them could

answer these questions. Was there ever a rough-and-tumble that anybody

could explain lucidly the morning after? Perhaps it was the false pride of

youth; the bitter distaste at the thought of six turning tail for one.

Cunningham fired a shot at the ceiling, and a dozen of the crew came

piling in from the forward end of the passage. The fighting stopped

magically.

"You fools!" cried Cunningham in a high, cracked voice. "To put our heads

into hemp at the last moment. If anything happens to young Cleigh, back to

Manila you go with the yacht! Clear out! At the last moment!" It was like

a sob.




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