“Hang these guns!” Johnny swore, and quickly turned to secure the gag in the mouth of the offending second mate.  “You make any more yaps like that an’ I’ll wing you for keeps with yore own gun!” he snapped.  “We’re caught in yore trap an’ we’ll fight to a finish.  You’ll be the first to go under if you gets any smart.”

“Ahoy, men!” roared the captain in a towering rage, dancing frantically about on the deck and shouting for the crew to join him.  He filled the air with picturesque profanity and stamped and yelled in passion at such rank mutiny.

“Hand grenades!  Hand grenades!” he cried.  Then he remembered that his two mates were also below and would share in the mutineers’ fate, and his rage increased at his galling helplessness.  When he had calmed sufficiently to think clearly he realized that it was certain death for any one to attempt going down the ladder, and that his must be a waiting game.  He glanced at his crew, thirteen good men, all armed with windlass bars and belaying pins, and gave them orders.  Two were to watch the hatch and break the first head to appear, while the others returned to work.  Hunger and thirst would do the rest.  And what joy would be his when they were forced to surrender!

Hopalong groped his way slowly towards the patch of light, barking his shins, stumbling and falling over the barrels and crates and finally, losing his footing at a critical moment, tumbled down upon a box marked “Cotton.”  There was a splintering crash and the very faint clink of metal.  Dazed and bruised, he sat up and felt of himself—­and found that he had lost his gun in the fall.

“Now, where in blazes did it fly to?” he muttered angrily, peering about anxiously.  His eyes suddenly opened their widest and he stared in surprise at a field gun which covered him; and then he saw parts of two more.

“Good Lord!  Is this a gunboat?” he cried.  “Are we up against bluejackets an’ Uncle Sam?” He glanced quickly back the way he had come when he heard Johnny’s shot, but he could see nothing.  He figured that Johnny had sense enough to call for help if he needed it, and put that possibility out of his mind.  “Naw, this ain’t no gunboat—­the Government don’t steal men; it enlists ’em.  But it’s a funny pile of junk, all the same.  Where in blazes is that toy gun? Well, I’ll be hanged!” and he plunged toward the “Cotton” box he had burst in his descent, and worked at it frantically.

“Winchesters!  Winchesters!” he cried, dragging out two of them.  “Whoop!  Now for the cartridges—­there shore must be some to go with these guns!” He saw a keg marked “Nails,” and managed to open it after great labor—­and found it full of army Colts.  Forcing down the desire to turn a handspring, he slipped one of the six-shooters in his empty holster and patted it lovingly.  “Old friend, I’m shore glad to see you, all right.  You’ve been used, but that don’t make no difference.”  Searching further, he opened a full box of machetes, and soon after found cartridges of many kinds and calibres.  It took him but a few minutes to make his selection and cram his pockets with them.  Then he filled two Colts and two Winchesters—­and executed a short jig to work off the dangerous pressure of his exuberance.