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“‘BILL ROGERS:–You seem to be a square fellow and up against it. I had to dope you because you would not have signed if you knew the other two would have gone along. But I needed just three men; so I doped you all. You’ll find their guns and belts in your bag. Of course, you will know what to do if you get in trouble. Good luck.’

“Now,” said Rogers, “those guns are not now in my bag, and you can’t find them without my say-so; but, if I put you onto them, will you call it off? Will you let up, and go back reporting that I had escaped? If you get ashore by any means, will you take me with you and turn me loose?”

They each looked steadily at Rogers for a moment or two; then Quincy spoke.

“If you can furnish me my gun, Bill, it’s all off. I’ll resign my job, if necessary; but I won’t hunt you any more.”

“Benson?” asked Rogers.

“The Canadian Mounted Police and the whole Colonial Government can go hang. Give me a gun, Rogers, and I’ll trouble you no more!”

Rogers was about to speak, when the big first mate appeared at the forecastle door, and said in the forceful manner of deep-water mates:

“Turn to. Where’s that bloody-minded stage robber? Hey! Here you are! Get aft to the wheel again. You can steer, if you are a murderer.”

“All right, Sir,” answered Rogers, deferentially, and then, in a whisper to the two, he said, “In my bag, halfway down. Two guns and two belts.”

Then Bill Rogers, desperado, outlaw, and fugitive from justice, went to the wheel, and as he steered he smiled again, grimly and painfully, for his nose hurt.

Billings had followed him aft, up on the poop, and to the vicinity of the after companion, where he stood, waiting for the Captain. Snelling, having finished his dinner, had gone forward to oversee the men, all of whom were now on deck and scattering to their various tasks. That is, all but two. Quincy and Benson, each one girdled with a beltful of cartridges, each carrying a heavy revolver, each scowling wickedly, were marching up to Snelling.

“Hands up!” said Quincy, sternly. “Up with ’em and go back to the other end of the boat!”

Involuntarily, it seemed, the second mate obeyed. Up went his hands over his head. Then, remembering that he was second mate, he answered, “What’s this? Mutiny! Put them guns down!”

Quincy’s gun spat out a red tongue, and Snelling’s cap left his head.

“Next time I’ll aim lower,” said Quincy. “Right about face! March!”

Snelling was impressed. With his hands aloft he wheeled and preceded them to the poop steps, up which he climbed.

But Billings had noticed, and acted. With a shout down the companion to the Captain, he whipped out a pocket revolver and hurried forward in the alley to meet the procession. But he did not use that revolver. Benson took quick aim and fired, and coincident with the report the nickel-plated weapon left his hand, whirling high in air before falling overboard. Billings whinnied in pain, and, rubbing his benumbed hand, backed aft before the advancing Snelling.

Then, up the companion on a run, came the Captain, a fat cigar in his mouth and a look of wonder and astonishment on his face. Benson and Quincy were now in the alley, and again a pistol spoke–Quincy’s, this time–and the fat cigar left the Captain’s mouth in two pieces.

“Hands up, all three of you,” yelled Quincy, “or we’ll shoot to kill! Found out, haven’t you, that we can shoot–some? That’s our trade. Up with your hands!”

Both Captain and mate raised their hands, but the former protested.

“This is mutiny, you scoundrels! D’you know the penalty? Ten years!”

“It won’t be ten minutes,” answered Quincy. “Call it what you like, mutiny, burglary, or pistol practice. But I’ll tell you what it sure will be, if you don’t come to time. It’ll be a pig killing, and justifiable manslaughter in the courts. I know something about law, and I’ve got you for abduction. A man abducted has a right to defend himself, and I’ll kill you if you don’t head this boat for land and put us ashore.”