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In a few moments the eleven men came aft in a body, empty-handed, however, and evidently with no present hostile intention: they had merely come for their clothes. But that dunnage had not been searched; and in it might be all sorts of dangerous weapons and equally dangerous whisky, the possession of which could bring an unpleasant solution to the problem. So Mr. Jackson and Mr. Becker leveled their pistols over the poop-rail, and the chief mate roared: “Let those things alone–let ’em alone, or we’ll drop some more o’ you.”

The men halted, hesitated, and sullenly returned to the forecastle.

“Guess they’ve had enough,” said Mr. Becker, jubilantly.

“Don’t fool yourself. They’re not used to blood-letting, that’s all. If it wasn’t for my wife and the kids I’d lower the dinghy and jump her; and it isn’t them I’d run from, either. As it is, I’ve half a mind to haul down the flag, and let the old man settle it. Steward,” he called to a mild-faced man who had been flitting from galley to cabin, unmindful of the disturbance, “go forrard and find out how bad those fellows are hurt. Don’t say I sent you, though.”

The steward obeyed, and returned with the information that two men had broken arms, two flesh-wounds in the legs, and one–the big man–suffered from a ragged hole through the shoulder. All were stretched out in bedless bunks, unwilling to move. He had been asked numerous questions by the others–as to where the ship was bound, who the men were who had shot them, why there was no bedding in the forecastle, the captain’s whereabouts, and the possibility of getting ashore to swear out warrants. He had also been asked for bandages and hot water, which he requested permission to supply, as the wounded men were suffering greatly. This permission was refused, and the slight–very slight–nautical flavor to the queries, and the hopeful condition of the stricken ones, decided Mr. Jackson to leave the police flag at the masthead.

When dinner was served in the cabin, and Mr. Jackson sat down before a savory roast, leaving Mr. Becker on deck to watch, the steward imparted the additional information that the men forward expected to eat in the cabin.

“Hang it!” he mused; “they can’t be sailor-men.”

Then Mr. Becker reached his head down the skylight, and said: “Raisin’ the devil with the cook, sir–dragged him out o’ the galley into the forecastle.”

“Are they coming aft?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Watch out.”

The mate went on eating, and the steward hurried forward to learn the fate of his assistant. He did not return until Mr. Jackson was about to leave the cabin. Then he came, with a wry face and disgust in his soul, complaining that he had been seized, hustled into the forecastle, and compelled, with the Chinese cook, to eat of the salt beef and pea-soup prepared for the men, which lay untouched by them. In spite of his aches and trouble of mind, Mr. Jackson was moved to a feeble grin.

“Takes a sailor or a hog to eat it, hey, Steward?” he said.

He relieved Mr. Becker, who ate his dinner hurriedly, as became a good second mate, and the two resumed their watch on the poop, noticing that the cook was jabbering Chinese protest in the galley, and that the men had climbed to the topgallant-forecastle–also watching, and occasionally waving futile signals to passing tugs or small sailing-craft. They, too, might have welcomed the police boat.

But, either because the Almena lay too far over on the Jersey flats for the flag to be noticed, or because harbor police share the fallibility of their shore brethren in being elsewhere when wanted, no shiny black steamer with blue-coated guard appeared to investigate the trouble, and it was well on toward three o’clock before a tug left the beaten track to the eastward and steamed over to the ship. The officers took her lines as she came alongside, and two men climbed the side-ladder–one, a Sandy Hook pilot, who need not be described; the other, the captain of the ship.