“Not till Mr. Mate ’as this in ’is ribs,” said Long Jim.

“Ye fool—­here they be, on us, and Harris with a couple of guns.  Run for it, Jim, I tell ye,” and Buckrow rose up out of the dark within reach of my hand and thrust back the slide of the forecastle-hood and swung below.

Long Jim came after him, chuckling with the joy of battle.  I wanted to do something, to have some hand in the fight, to capture one of the murderers, and so prove to Riggs that I was not in league with them.  This impulse to aid the captain’s side of the fight came to me swiftly, and I put it into action at once by jumping directly in Long Jim’s path at the head of the forecastle ladder.  I planned to grab his arms and hurl him back, yelling at the same time to Harris not to shoot, that it was I, Trenholm, and that I was holding Long Jim.

It was a foolish enough thing to do, for in the excitement of the minute Harris would have undoubtedly shot me and Long Jim, too, and with good reason, for he would have suspected a trap if I had asked him to hold his fire and approach us in the dark.

As it happened, Long Jim was throwing himself forward in a sort of dive beneath the hood of the scuttle, just as I thrust my body against the opening.  His shoulder caught me in the stomach, and my head and feet flew out and we grabbed each other and went tumbling down the old wooden companion together and rolled into the black forecastle.

“Blime me, I thought ye was down afore me, Bucky,” gasped Long Jim, recovering himself and stumbling over me.  I rolled to one side and found myself under a bunk.

“I was down,” said Buckrow.  “What ye trying to do—­make a Punch and Judy show of yerself?  Ye come down like a lubberly farmer, and then blame it on me.  What made ye tumble like that?”

“I thought ye was down.”

“I was down—­well clear of ye and waiting for ye.”

“Then how come ye under my bleedin’ feet.  Mind yer eye now, or the two of ’em’ll be down on us.  That mate is a bad un, I tell ye, Bucky—­bad as the nigger in the Southern Cross.  No end of trouble with him, if ye remember as I do.”

“Aw, stow the gab,” whispered Buckrow, “We’re working now.  Mind what yer about.  I’ve got another gun from Thirkle.”

“Thirkle here?” asked Long Jim.  “W’ere be ye, Thirkle?”

“Standing by,” was the whispered reply.  “Shoot if they come down, but keep still a minute.  Fire up before they have a chance to drop on you, and stand clear, with the gun around the bulkhead at that side, while I let go at them from this side.”

“Below thar!” called Harris down the scuttle.  “All hands on deck and look lively, or I’ll make a tailor’s dummy of the last up.”

“Don’t say a word, but let him have it when he gets well down,” whispered the man who had been addressed as Thirkle, which mystified me.

“Below thar!  I want the man as killed the Dutchman!  All hands up and one at a time, or I’ll let daylight through ye all.  Hear me below?”