Wheeling about choking and strangling from the smoke, his streamingly smarting eyes barely able to discern the fiery trail he had laid.  Brice ran through the midst of the red line of embers to the door.  Reaching it he held the key in one hand while the sensitive fingers of the other sought the keyhole.

After what seemed a century he found it, and applied and turned the key in the stiff lock.  With a fierce shove he pushed open the door.  Then as he was about to bound forth into the glory of the sunset, he started back convulsively.

One moccasin had evidently sought outer air.  With this in view it had stretched itself along the crack of light at the foot of the door.  Now as the door flew wide the snake coiled itself to strike at the man who had all but stepped on it.

Down whizzed the narrow strip of iron Gavin had wrenched from the box as a possible weapon.  And, though the impact cut Brice’s fingers afresh, the snake lay twisting wildly and harmlessly with a cloven spine.

Over the writhing body sprang Gavin Brice and out into the sandy open, filling his smoke-tortured lungs with the fresh sunset air and blinking away the smoke-damp from his stinging eyes.

It was then he beheld running toward him three men.  Far in the van was Roke—­his attention no doubt having been caught by the smoke pouring through the ventilator.  The two others were an undersized conch and a towering Bahama negro.  All three carried clubs, and a pistol glittered in Roke’s left hand.

Ten feet from the reeling Gavin.  Roke opened fire.  But, as he did not halt when he pulled trigger, his shot went wild.  Before he could shoot again or bring his club into action.  Brice was upon him.  Gavin smote once and once only with the willowy metal strip.  But he struck with all the dazzling speed of a trained saber fencer.

The iron strip caught Roke across the eyes, smartingly and with a force which blinded him for the moment and sent him staggering back in keen pain.  The iron strip doubled uselessly under the might of the blow, and Gavin dropped it and ran.

At top speed he set off toward the dock.  The conch and the negro were between him and the pier, and from various directions other men were running.  But only the Bahaman and the little conch barred his actual line of progress.  Both leaped at him at the same time, as he came dashing down on them.

The conch was a yard or so in front of the negro.  And now the fugitive saw the Bahaman’s supposed cudgel was an iron crowbar which he wielded as easily as a wand.  The negro leaped and at the same time struck.  But, by some queer chance, the conch, a yard ahead of him, lost his own footing in the shifty sand just then and tumbled headlong.

He fell directly in the Bahaman’s path.  The negro stumbled over him and plunged earthward, the iron bar flying harmless from his grasp.

“Good little Davy!” apostrophized Brice, as he hurdled the sprawling bodies and made for the dock.