“Burn the cussed scuttle off a mite at a time.  Grease a bit of the board and then hold the flame of the lamp on it, and, when it gets too lively, heave some water on and put it out and begin again.  Haul a couple of barrels of water in here and spill it under the bunks so we can git at it with the pans if the fire starts to git away from us.  Clap on, man; we need every minute now.”

Rajah and I rigged them with strings and set to drawing water through the port-holes on the port side, which was not a hard job, for the swells came within a couple of feet of our hands as we held the tins outside.  We filled sea-chests, the rubber crowns of a couple of old sou’westers, and dumped water through the slats of the tiers of bunks so that it lodged in the angle between the side of the ship and the deck.

While we were at this task Riggs was up in the scuttle, and from time to time we could hear the crackle of flames, and then the hissing of the water as he extinguished the burning planks.  The thick smoke came down the companion and burned our eyes and nostrils as it escaped through the ports.

Riggs came down every few minutes to get a supply of water.  He was black as a chimney-sweep, but he reported good progress and grinned at our discomfort from the smoke and heat.

Finally we heard Riggs hammering at the charred board with the belaying-pin.

“I’ve got it through!” he yelled to us from a smoking shower of black fragments of the board, and I ran up to him and saw the sun through the chains around the frame of the scuttle.  The links were glowing with heat and we dashed water on them.  In a short time we had wrenched them apart so Rajah could get through the strands.  Then he threw off the bars of our prison, and Riggs and I gained the hot plates of the sloping fore-deck, crawling over the body of the dead Chinese, which we rolled into the sea.

“They are clean gone,” said Riggs, crawling up to the starboard side and scanning the island and the channel.  “They went in behind that point, and it’s a good chance they’ll be back if they see she’s still afloat.”

“Let them come,” I said.  “Are there any more weapons in the ship?”

“I’ve got a few guns stowed where even Thirkle couldn’t find ’em, or at least Harris hid some away.  Always afraid of mutiny, he was, and he got one with a vengeance, poor chap.  It’s my ticket to a penny whistle we’ll find Thirkle and his men on the island.”

“Then you’ll go after them, captain?”

“Well, I’d rather guess so,” he said vehemently.  “I’m on fair ground now, and if they don’t come back to burn the ship I’m the man to hunt them out of their holes ashore.  But what I’m afraid of is they will hide the stuff and make for the mainland, or put off to the north in the boats to see if they can’t be picked up by some steamer for the north coast.

“They’ll report the Kut Sang lost, and Thirkle’ll figure on getting back here before folks are suspicious.  Of course the people who shipped that gold may smell a rat and keep tab on him, but he’ll see that he gets clear.  He’ll report her foundered far from here—­leave that to him.  I doubt if he’ll quit this place as long as he sees a foot of the Kut Sang above water.  Are you game to go after him, Mr. Trenholm?”