The lifeboats were thumping against the vessel's side and grating along as the riffraff crew returned with the swimmers they had rescued. The captain picked up the unconscious body of the Italian bootleg king and strode down the bridge stairs with it under his right arm. A patch of blood was already oozing out from the burning hole in his left shoulder, painting the yellow oilskin crimson. He deposited his unconscious burden upon the deck underneath an electric light. Walking to the head of the gangplank, he bent to peer downward, where dripping figures were climbing from the boats upon the landing platform of the gangplank and starting up toward the deck. At the head of the line was a man in a blue uniform, and as he stepped upon the deck he snorted with astonishment, for the menacing figure of the captain shot out a long arm with a stubby automatic gripped in his huge fist. "I'm grabbing for the sky, skipper!" the uniformed man chuckled, stretching both his hands high overhead. "What vessel?" snarled the oilskin-clad figure. "Coast Guard cutter Quadras. We were laying without lights for the rum-runner Bear, from St. John, when we got rammed by a Jap tramp who went on and left us." * * * * * The blunt nose of the automatic whipped toward the face of the next gaping man who stepped on the deck. "Hands up! Get 'em up, I said, damn you!" The gaunt skipper stepped to the side of the Coast Guard commander and tapped the back of his coat with the back of his left hand. Finding no hidden weapons, he thrust the pistol muzzle into the face of the dumfounded seaman, who had frozen in his tracks at the top of the gangplank. "I ain't got no gun, cap!" the man blurted. "Step ahead, then, you're blocking traffic!" One by one the others filed up and ranged along the deck, grinning sheepishly, their hands uplifted. The Coast Guard commander turned to confront him. "I give you my word, sir, neither my men nor myself will commit an overt act. We're too glad to be picked up, no matter who you may be." The skipper smiled grimly as he thrust the automatic into his pocket. "At your ease, men. Your arms might get stiff from keepin' 'em up so long. I hate to do it, but I'm in honor bound to protect my cargo. This is the rum-runner Bear, with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars' worth of Canadian Club." The Coast Guard commander slapped his wet thigh and laughed heartily. "That's pretty rich!" A roar went up from the line of men, glad to enjoy a joke on themselves. Several of the rum vessel's crew came stalking up the gangplank, with guns and knives gleaming in their hands, only to thrust them out of sight and join in the laughter. Down on the landing platform the mate was bawling to the men he had sent to scull the boats to the davit falls.