dash into the group, striking out left and right, his men at his heels.  There was a volley of oaths, a thud of falling bodies, a sharp command, and the shrill pipe of a boatswain’s whistle.  Two men rushed forward, the first disappearing behind the chart-house.  The second encountered Broussard stepping off the bridge ladder, and hurled the fellow to the deck with one blow of a sledge-hammer fist.  Scarcely pausing to see whether he was alive or not, the assailant ran on toward the forecastle.

The whole affair was over in two minutes, the blue-jackets circling out like a fan, and pressing their enemy into a helpless mass against the rail.  For a moment the fight was furious, every man for himself, then the Lieutenant drove like a wedge into the bunch, and it was all over.  I struggled to my feet, still viewing all through a mist, and swaying back and forward as I endeavored to steady myself on the rolling deck.  There was no one at the wheel, and the bow of the Sea Gull was swinging slowly about.

“On to the bridge there, Coates, and hold up her head,” sang out the officer.  “Boatswain, take charge of these beauties, and run them into the forecastle.  Leave two men on guard, and take a squint into the engine room.  Report to me here.”

He took off his coat, examined a long slit in its side where a vicious knife had ripped it from shoulder to tail; then slipped it on again, and watched his men drive their prisoners forward.

“I ’d like to know which one of them did that,” he growled, glancing toward me.  “Say, what ’s the matter with you—­shot?  You ’re white as a sheet of paper, man.”

“I got one on the head with a belaying pin from the heft of it.  The bullet touched me—­here.  Lord, how it burns.”

“Who did the shooting?”

“Henley here,” and I touched the fellow with my foot.  “He fired just as I hit him.”

The Lieutenant stepped forward and looked down into the upturned face.

“So that’s the man!” he exclaimed.  “We ’ve done a good day’s work.  I ’ve heard stories of that half-breed ever since we ’ve been on this coast.  He must be a natural devil, but he ’s played hide and seek with Uncle Sam for the last time.  This will be a feather in the ‘old man’s’ cap.  He ’s waking up.”

Henley stirred as he spoke, and opened his eyes, staring up into my face, and then at the Lieutenant’s uniform.  The sight of the latter perplexed him.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked angrily, making an effort to rise.  “Where is Broussard?”

“Henley,” I said, stepping in between them, “the game is up, and the best thing you can do now is keep quiet.  This gentleman is Lieutenant Hutton, of the Revenue Cutter Saline, and his men have the crew of the Sea Gull under hatches forward.  Give me back those papers.”

[Illustration:  “Give me back those papers.”]

He had the envelope still clasped in his left hand, and he glanced at it dully, and then beyond me toward Hutton.  Apparently his brain, yet numbed by the blow, failed to entirely comprehend.  The Lieutenant, however, was a man of action.  With grip on his collar he jerked the poor wretch to his feet, and held him there.