"Gentlemen, the _Arsulus_ has just been sunk at its dock. You were warned that if another depredation occurred we would lock you out whether you struck or not." His fist crashed to the table. "That ship was loaded so it would capsize. A million dollars worth of property has been destroyed. You will see that we can take no other action. Negotiations are at an end. We will fight you now to the finish. I must bid you good evening." Calmly and coldly he threaded his way through the crowds of 'longshoremen into whose minds the greatness of this new blow, just struck, was beginning to penetrate. There was a sudden burst of sound as men tried to make themselves heard, seeking for recognition, yelling, shouting. Again and again the gavel crashed to the table for order. Finally, reluctantly it came. The president of the 'Longshoremen's Union looked down at the upturned faces of his men. "Boys, this meeting is not of our choice. Strange things have happened. We must remember, however, in our excitement and resentment that in the past the shipowners have treated us with a large measure of fairness. Now we must face these new problems. The Chairman of the shipowners' committee has just announced to us that they will refuse to treat with us----" "Then let's strike. Give them their answer. Strike!" It was the German dock foreman who had leaped to his feet and was striding up and down the aisle in defiance of the gavel beating for order. One after another the 'longshoremen joined in his cry, hypnotized by his apparent earnestness, eager to follow his evident leadership. "Strike, Strike! We'll bring these shipowners to their senses. What have they done for us?" In the overturned hulk of the _Arsulus_, still fighting the death that seemed imminent, the members of the Criminology Club racked their brains for a means of escape from the waters threatening to engulf them. Grant reached out a hand in the darkness and encountered a clenched fist. "Cavanaugh, is that you?" "Yes," the reply bordered on a gasp. "Some kind of crating here. I've got a balehook I picked up somewhere." "A balehook? Give it to me." Cavanaugh handed the implement to Grant, who dragged himself to the pinnacle of the debris and began a systematic tapping on the steel hull of the vessel with the handle of the heavy hook. In a moment the operatives deciphered the message he was sending in Morse Code.