The launch was abreast of them now, and skimming along so close that one might have tossed a biscuit aboard of her. For an instant Captain Peasley hesitated; then Emerson saw the ends of his bristly mustache rise above an expansive grin as he winked portentously. But his voice was convincingly loud and wrathful as he replied: "What do you mean, sir? I'll have my blooming ship libelled for this." "I'll make good your losses," Emerson volunteered, quickly, realizing that other ears were open. "Why, it's mutiny, sir." "Exactly! You can say you went out under duress." "I never heard of such a thing," stormed the skipper. Then, more quietly, "But I don't seem to have any choice in the matter; do I?" "None whatever." "Tell them to go to hell!" growled Balt from the open window above their head. A blasphemous outcry floated up from the launch, while heads protruded from the deck-house openings, the faces white in the slanting glare. "Why don't you heave to?" demanded a voice. Peasley stepped to the end of the bridge and called down: "I can't stop, my good man, they won't allow it, y' know. You'll have to bloody well come aboard yourself." Then, obedient to his command, the search-light traced an arc through the darkness and died out, leaving the little craft in darkness, save for its dim lantern. Unseen by the amazed quartermaster, who was startled out of speech and action, Emerson gripped the Captain's shoulder and whispered his thanks, while the Britisher grumbled under his breath: "Bli' me! Won't that labor crowd be hot? They nearly bashed in my head with that iron spike. Four hundred pounds! My word!" The sputter of the craft alongside was now punctuated by such a volley of curses that he raised his voice again: "Belay that chatter, will you? There's a lady aboard." The police launch sheered off, and the sound of her exhaust grew rapidly fainter and fainter. But not until it had wholly ceased did Big George give over his post at the wheel. Even then he went down the ladder reluctantly, and without a word of thanks, of explanation, or of apology. With him this had been but a part of the day's work. He saw neither sentiment nor humor in the episode. The clang of the deep-throated ship's bell spoke the hour, and, taking Cherry's arm, Boyd helped her to the deck. "Now let's eat something," said she. "Yes," he agreed, relief and triumph in his tone, "and drink something, too." "We'll drink to the health of 'Fingerless' Fraser." "To the health of 'Fingerless' Fraser," he echoed. "We will drink that standing."