Mr. Percy F. Westerman has contributed these stories to "THE CAPTAIN, A MAGAZINE FOR BOYS & 'OLD BOYS.'", volume XXVII, published in 1912, by George Newnes, Limited, 3 to 12, Southampton Street, Strand, London.

Contents (in alphabetical order)

"WE'RE here at last, Kirke, and methinks none too soon," exclaimed Captain Leake, of His Majesty's frigate Dartmouth , as he pointed to the beleaguered city of Londonderry. "Now your part of the business is to commence."

Colonel Percy Kirke, the defender of Tangiers, the man who had exercised such diabolical cruelty towards the miserable peasants who had taken up arms on behalf of the rebel Monmouth, was now about to succour the Ulstermen, who were fighting for their lives and liberties against King James—the colonel's former sovereign and benefactor.

"'Tis not my business to throw troops against yonder entrenchments, Leake," he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Until you can force the enemy's defences my men will remain on board the transports. Those rogues have held out for six weeks, and they can well do so for another month."

"Does it seem so?" demanded Leake, indicating the smoke-enshrouded buildings. "However, you have your orders even as I have, and since you neglect to comply with them I must needs act alone." So saying the gallant sea-captain turned on his heel and made his way to the poop, whence he could command a better view of the scene of hostilities.

It was in April of the year 1689 that the combined French and Irish forces began what seemed to be a comparatively easy task—the reduction of Londonderry. A handful of sturdy Ulstermen—of English and Scottish descent—had bid defiance to the army of the deposed King James, and, in spite of many a hard-pushed assault, had kept the besiegers at bay. Then famine was made to do the work that the sword had failed to accomplish, and in their anxiety the harassed defenders appealed to King William for aid.

Troops were embarked at Liverpool, and the relieving squadron sailed on May 16th, but, strange to relate, the English ships, in spite of their having kept the sea, did not arrive off the mouth of the Foyle until thirty days after.

Perspective glass in hand, Captain Leake made a careful examination of the upper reaches of Loch Foyle. For miles on either side batteries had been thrown up to contest the passage of the ships of the relieving squadron; while to make doubly sure the French engineers had constructed a massive boom from bank to bank at a spot where the river is barely a quarter of a mile wide.

In spite of his redoubtable courage the captain's doubts arose when he perceived the formidable obstruction. Strong baulks of fir, lashed together with thick tarred ropes and secured to either shore by means of twenty 4 in. cables, iron-shod stakes driven into the bed of the river, and equally dangerous obstructions formed by boats filled with stones and sunk in the Channel—all combined to present such a powerful means of defence that at first sight appeared to be absolutely impregnable.

Beyond the enemy's batteries rose the houses of the city, dominated by the square tower of the cathedral, on which cannons had been mounted and were keeping up a desultory fire upon the attacking party. Here and there tall columns of black smoke rose in the still air, showing that the foemen's mortars had set the houses on fire in more places than one; but though the damage done by the bombardment and frequent assaults was apparent, Captain Leake had no visible sign of the presence of a still more dreaded foe—the famine that lurked indiscriminately in both mansion and cottage.

Although the captain knew not of the full extent of this insidious evil, his experience told him that something must be done. Londonderry appealed for aid—she must not appeal in vain.

"Oh, for a strong northerly breeze," he muttered as he closed his glass, then, walking to the head of the poop-ladder, he exclaimed "Pass the word for Dymock to come aft."

In less than a minute Jock Dymock—a tall alert youth of nineteen—stood bareheaded before his chief. The lad was serving aboard the Dartmouth frigate in the capacity of acting third mate, having been chosen for promotion by the gallant Leake himself, who was ever ready to remark any special signs of ability amongst the men of his crew.

"Dymock, I've sent for you to undertake a desperate errand. Before I say more understand that whether you elect to take this business in hand or not is left entirely to your discretion. I will not order you—I merely ask. Now, you are a native of Derry, I believe? You know the coast well?"

"Not Derry born, your honour," replied the young Ulsterman. "Come from Moville, over yonder. But I claim to know every sandbank and every current in the loch, betwixt the Tuns and Derrybridge."

"Good. Now what I want you to do is this: take a letter to Governor Baker, assuring him that we will take the first opportunity of throwing a stock of provisions into the city. How you will proceed—if you make the attempt, and knowing you as I do I feel confident that you will—must rest with yourself; but at the same time I shall be curious to know how you propose to act. When you have decided upon that point let me know."

"I' faith, I'll do my best, sir," replied Dymock. "And my plans are already laid. I mean to swim to Derry."

"It's a good five miles and in the face of the enemy on both banks," observed Captain Leake tentatively.

"With the tide 'twill be aisy, your honour. High water at the bridge is an hour later than here, off McKenny's Bank. That will give me seven hours' favouring tide, and on a dark night I'll cheat the rascally Frenchman or my name's not Jock Dymock."

At ten o'clock that same night Jock Dymock, stripped and smeared from head to foot with soot and tallow, went over the side of the frigate and entered the long-boat that was waiting alongside. He was unarmed save for a short keen-bladed dagger slung round his neck, while placed within a close-fitting cap was Leake's letter to the Governor of Londonderry.

With muffled oars the boat's crew pulled up stream, guided by the glare of the enemy's watch-fires. The young flood had just set in, but on either hand the vast unbeaconed sandbanks still rose high above the rippling water. Silently the men urged their craft up the channel, taking their directions from Dymock's outstretched hand. The creaking of a thole, an involuntary sneeze, or thoughtless word or exclamation, would be sufficient to draw upon them a heavy fire from the French and Irish musketeers who lay thick on either shore.

Presently, with an almost imperceptible jar, the long-boat's forefoot grounded on the edge of McKenny's Bank. The daring messenger leapt out and waited till the long-boat backed and was lost to view in the darkness. Then, with every faculty on the alert, he set his face resolutely towards the city of Derry.

At about every hundred yards Dymock had to cross one of the numerous deep channels that intersect the sands, till further walking was impossible at the edge of the main channel. Here he was within a hundred yards of the northernmost of the enemy's batteries. He could distinguish the sentries slowly pacing to and fro, their figures silhouetted against the glare of the camp-fires.

As noiselessly as a water-rat the intrepid messenger glided into the swift-flowing stream, and, swimming with a powerful breast-stroke, soon began to visibly lessen the distance 'twixt him and his goal. Now the outermost battery was left behind. Should the alarm be raised his retreat would be cut off, for at the faintest suspicion, armed boats, provided with bright lanterns, would push off and patrol the narrow channel.

Against the loom of the lights he could see a low-lying dark mass stretched across the stream from bank to bank. It was the boom. Fifty strokes brought him up to the obstruction, but in vain his fingers sought to find a hold upon the slimy weed-covered baulks of timber. The suction of the current swept his legs beneath the woodwork, and only by an effort was he able to kick himself clear of the floating mass.

"Then if I can't climb I must needs dive under it," muttered Dymock, for he felt that in the struggle his strength was failing him, and unless something was done he would be pinned by the dark torrent against the side of the boom.

Taking a deep breath he swam downwards. Dark as was the night the utter blackness of the water was still more so. He was groping blindly beneath the waves.

Already he had lost all sense of direction. He realised that he must keep to the required depth and trust to the current to sweep him beneath the floating mass of timber. He felt that he must rise—yet dared not. His breath was well-nigh exhausted.

Suddenly he felt his body come in contact with a sharp pointed object. It was one of the stakes fixed in the bed of the river. Then the terrible thought assailed him—was the space enough betwixt the tips of the stakes and the bottom of the boom?

Rising slightly he felt the tide sweep him past the obstruction. The iron point scraped his flesh, but in his anxiety and with the numbness of his body the pain was not worth noticing. It was mental not bodily torment that he felt. Even as he rose his head struck a barnacle-covered baulk, but with barely six inches to spare he was swept betwixt his Scylla and Charybdis: then up and up he swam till his head emerged above the surface and he drank in pure night air.

Turning on his back Dymock floated, breathing deeply and resting his tired limbs. The worst of his journey was now over, thought he; with the tide the passage betwixt the remaining batteries was merely a question of time. Now he could discern the low ramparts, the shattered houses, and the battered cathedral tower of the beleaguered city. With renewed energy, fired by the sense of duty, he once more struck out, though his strokes were more feeble than of yore.

But Dymock's assurances were short-lived. Rowing straight in his direction was a boat—not one of the besiege's patrol craft, but a small skiff manned by two rowers, who were taking a French officer across the river.

Ceasing to strike out the swimmer allowed himself to sink till the water rose to his lips, trusting that in the darkness his soot-smeared face would escape notice. As he did so some salt water entered his mouth, and, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, he gave vent to a cough.

"Hey! What was that?" demanded the French officer, and bidding the rowers desist he drew a lantern from beneath the stern bench and held it aloft.

"There. On your bow!" shouted the Frenchman. "A rat-eating rebel! Smite him over the head with your oar, Gaston."

The bowman stood up and aimed a vicious blow at Dymock's head, but the swimmer dived.

"Back your oars, rascals!" exclaimed the officer. "He must come up, then, ma foi , I'll wing him."

Drawing a pistol the Frenchman cocked the weapon and held it at the ready, while the rowers backed, following the swirl that denoted the course of the hunted man.

At length Dymock rose; only to find that his dive had proved of little avail. The boat was within an oar's length of him.

The officer snapped his pistol, but the flint refused to draw fire. With an oath he threw the weapon into the boat, and shouted to his men to run down the fugitive.

Dymock dared not risk another dive. His breath would not last sufficiently for him to gain any material advantage. He realised that he must act—and that quickly.

Swish . The bowman's oar struck the water barely two inches from the swimmer's shoulder. Ere the man could recover himself Dymock seized the blade, and placing his feet against the side of the boat, tugged lustily at the oar. The next instant his antagonist was struggling in the water, but weighted down by his thigh-boots, the man sank ere he could regain the boat.

Once more the scale turned in the Ulsterman's favour, for, having only one oar remaining and the boat being unprovided with a sculling-notch, the officer and his companion could not hope to overtake the fugitive.

By this time the noise had alarmed the troops on shore, and, seeing a boat with a lantern partially concealed by its sides, they concluded that 'twas an English craft attempting to gain the city. Immediately a heavy fire was opened upon the luckless Frenchman, while Dymock, swimming desperately, was already beyond the zone of the falling missiles.

Without further adventure the swimmer gained the city quay, where the gallant Governor Baker, to whom sleep seemed a stranger, was at the head of his men, who, hearing the firing, had stood to their arms.

"We can give you but a sorry welcome, young sir, yet none the less hearty," quoth Baker. "But what says Colonel Kirke?"

"'Tis from Captain Leake that I am come," replied Dymock, producing the letter, which in spite of its oiled wrapper resembled a limp rag.

"Read it! Read it!" shouted the crowd of famished yet undaunted citizens.

"The King's ships are in the Foyle, and Captain Leake promises that an attempt will be made to break the boom at the first possible moment," announced the Governor.

"And what of Kirke? What are his troops doing?" vociferated the crowd. "Are we to be fed on promises?"

"Ay, what is Kirke doing, young sir?" asked Governor Baker. "A month ago we heard that his troops were on their way to our aid."

"That I cannot say, sir." replied Dymock. "But concerning Captain Leake's promises I can stake my life that he'll carry them out. Further, to prove my faith in my chief, I'll right willingly remain with you till I see the ships of the squadron break the boom—fighting with you and faring with you, come good or ill."

But in spite of Captain Leake's resolution the wind kept in a south-westerly direction day after day, and the squadron remained inactive in Loch Foyle. Meanwhile the deposed King James determined to expedite the work of investment, and accordingly sent de Rosen—a barbarous soldier whose instincts were little better than those of a savage—to supersede Hamilton, who had hitherto exerted himself to the utmost to subdue the city.

De Rosen behaved with such brutality that his methods even appalled his royal master, and once again Hamilton assumed command over the French and Irish allies.

Within the city things were going badly. Following famine came pestilence; till with wounds, hunger, and disease the stout-hearted Ulstermen's numbers were rapidly thinning.

Yet in spite of these adversities, the beleaguered garrison kept up their courage: "No surrender" was their watchword. Londonderry would hold out for King William till the last man perished behind the crumbling defences. As for Dymock his energy was unbounded. Working on the shattered ramparts during the brief intervals when the enemy relaxed their activities, rushing to man the gaping breech caused by the springing of a mine, or assisting in quenching one of the numerous fires that the enemy's shot had caused with persistent frequency, he behaved like a hero amongst heroes. Yet in common with his comrades in arms he cast many anxious, longing glances towards the loch, where the topmasts of the English squadron were to be seen day after day in apparent inactivity.

At length, in the afternoon of July 28th, the wind backed suddenly to the northward. The city was in a state of feverish excitement, and the watchers on the cathedral tower were kept busily engaged in satisfying the anxious inquiries of their fellows on the shattered ramparts.

"No sign of any movement," was the answer, with monotonous and depressing frequency, till at sundown the joyous cry arose, "The ships are setting sail."

Soon Dymock, standing on the summit of one of the least damaged bastions, saw the topsails of three large vessels rounding Muff Point, while on either side of the river the allies were standing to their guns ready to give the English ships a warm reception.

On and on they came till Dymock could see their black and yellow hulls, as with wind and tide the rescuing vessels sped swiftly up the Foyle.

"There's the Dartmouth ," he exclaimed to those nearest him. "But i' faith, I cannot say what the others are."

"They carry no ordnance," muttered one of the defenders gloomily. "Perchance 'tis only a feint after all."

"Nay," replied Dymock, reassuringly. "My captain will never turn back."

Silence fell upon the group of watchers. On and on came the three ships, the frigate exchanged shots with the shore batteries. Splinters flew in showers from the Dartmouth's bulwarks and spars, her canvas was shot through and through, but her well-directed fire, dismounting guns and shelling the stone breastworks with equal ease, drove the Frenchmen from their batteries.

Her two consorts, the Mountjoy and the Phoenix , being unarmed merchantmen, could not reply to the fire that was directed at them, but taking their punishment with fortitude, bore steadily onwards in dignified silence.

And now, under a hard squall, the Mountjoy leapt ahead, as if the elements meant her to accomplish her work. Amid a turmoil of foam-lashed water and a rending of timber, her stout cutwater struck the massive boom. There was a dead-weight of over 300 tons behind the merchantman's stem; the best work of the French engineers was useless to stop her, and with a barely perceptible pause she sheared her way through the formidable obstruction.

The tense silence was broken by a cheer given with the last remaining energy of the famished citizens, but the cheer froze on their lips, for the next moment the Mountjoy stuck hard and fast on the mud.

Instantly the French and Irish troops rushed for their boats that lined the river bank.

"They're going to board her!" exclaimed the onlookers, as the troops pushed off towards the stranded merchantman.

"Sure, they won't, I'm thinking," replied Dymock.

Barely were the words out of his mouth than the roar of a tremendous broadside rose high above the crackle of musketry and the shouts of the infuriated foes. The Dartmouth had brought the whole of her starboard guns to bear upon the would-be boarders. One broadside was enough; the French and Irish broke and fled, leaving the Phoenix to profit by the Mountjoy's misfortune and sail right up to the city quays.

All that night the English warships cannonaded the batteries, while in the relieved city the famished inhabitants were swarming round the cargoes of provisions brought by the two gallant merchantmen, to the accompaniment of a joyous peal from the bells of the cathedral.

Next morning the allied forces were to be seen in full retreat towards Dublin, two long lines of smoking huts marking the site of their encampment for the last hundred days.

At the first opportunity Dymock was rowed off to the Dartmouth frigate. As he came over the side he saw Captain Leake standing on the quarter-deck.

"Come aboard, sir," he reported, bringing his hand to his hat.

The captain turned and looked at the haggard and famished features of his third mate.

"Back again, Mr. Dymock—good!"

That was all he said. Leake was a man of few words; but his subsequent treatment of the young officer showed that the captain was not slow to reward the man who swam to Derry.

"IT'S very unfortunate," remarked the editor of the Intelligence to his sub. "Arnold is in Tripoli in anticipation of a good 'story' when a real fight does take place. He may get it or he may not—time will prove. Baker is away in Panama waiting for developments. Cole is down with some childish complaint or other, and the doctor won't let him do a stroke. But Cole always was a man to knuckle under easily. To cap it all there's this Morocco business taking everybody by surprise, and the Intelligence hasn't a man on the staff fit to be sent. I'd go myself, by George! if I were twenty years younger."

"Why not give Devereux a chance?"

"Devereux? Why, he's only a youngster."

"Not more than twenty years younger than you are," replied Wilcox, the sub-editor, slily. "He's eighteen, fairly smart at his work——"

"We want men who are more than fairly smart."

"And trustworthy," continued Wilcox, ignoring his chief's interruption. "You remember he's done some very good specials for us on military matters."

"So he did; so he did. H'm, yes; he might do."

"I'll send for him," said the sub., eager to follow up his move, for he took a big and good-natured interest in Jack Devereux.

Wilcox took up the telephone receiver.

"That you, Evans? Good! Tell Devereux to come up here."

A minute later a tall, alert-looking youngster walked briskly into the chief's sanctum.

"Ah, Devereux! Wilcox has just suggested that you might represent us in Morocco. There's every likelihood of something important taking place there within the next few weeks. The attack on Fez has completely taken us all by surprise. We want a man who will be able to seize his chance if there is the remotest possibility of making a good scoop. Are you willing?"

Devereux was; he had no home ties, and his ambition lay solely in his work. "I'll go, sir."

"Good. You must catch the Calais boat-train this evening. Wilcox will put you up to anything you feel shaky about. But, remember, the interests of the Intelligence are to be your chief consideration."

"So you are the Intelligence man? Say, we may as well chum up together; only don't forget, sonny, we are rivals in the game, you know. All's fair in the news hunt, you'll find out."

It was in the city of Fez—after Devereux had successfully completed the five days' strenuous journey from Tangier. The speaker was Arnold B. Craddock, the veteran war correspondent of the Moonshine , a tall, gaunt individual of about forty years of age, whose leather-like features, tanned by exposure to all sorts and conditions of climate from the Arctic Circle to the Equator, were permanently puckered into a thousand wrinkles. He was a citizen of the U.S.A., but had been acquired by the Moonshine in order to introduce hustling methods into that journal, and its proprietors, knowing Craddock's reputation, looked for great things from their "special."

Craddock was dressed in a serviceable suit of khaki, with double-breasted pockets. His legs were encased in untanned cowhide boots and leggings. Across his shoulders were slung his prismatic field-glasses, counterbalanced by a case containing an automatic pistol.

Devereux's outfit was almost identical, except that he wore putties in place of leggings, and a solar-topee, or sun-helmet, instead of the wideawake affected by his American confrère .

"I won't forget," replied Devereux, extending his hand. "We are to try and do each other as much as we possibly can, but be good pals notwithstanding."

"Guess you've hit it," agreed Craddock, who felt he could afford to be tolerant with the inexperienced youth whom the Intelligence had, in its mild form of insanity, sent out to represent itself. "But I reckon, sonny, that if you are going to do anything at all you'd best make a move. There's more than a 'squito buzzing around over there." And he pointed towards the mountains, whence a faint rattle of musketry was borne to the ears of the two journalists.

Without waiting for another word Craddock flung himself into the high-peaked saddle of an Arab horse—a fine, full-spirited beast that he had purchased from one of the "reconciled" inhabitants of the captured city—and urged the animal at a furious pace towards the scene of action.

"He knows that there's something to be picked up over there," muttered Devereux, nodding his head in the direction taken by the American. "So the best thing I can do is to keep at his heels—if I can."

The young Englishman's mount was but a sorry specimen of a donkey—the only animal he had been able to procure. Devereux literally stepped into the saddle, and with his feet dangling barely eighteen inches from the ground, started in pursuit of his rival.

He was excited—that he was willing to admit—for within a few days of setting foot on African soil—and beastly soil it was—he was about to have a chance of smelling powder in real earnest.

The immediate environs of Fez consisted of a vast extent of undulating ground, sandy and interspersed by low masses of rocks. Here and there a few date-palms—the outlying sentinels of the extensive oasis—afforded a slight break to the deadly monotony of the sandy waste that extended to the base of the mountains.

"Not doing so badly, after all," soliloquised Devereux, as the sure-footed little animal trotted through the soft sand, instinctively avoiding all obstacles in the shape of hard rocks or diminutive "khors" or ravines. "I believe I'm holding my own in any case." For Craddock's horse had nearly exhausted itself in the first half-mile, and was now floundering along and almost hiding its rider from the Englishman's view by the cloud of dust from its labouring hoofs.

Nearer and nearer the two correspondents drew to the scene of action, Craddock still maintaining a lead of about four hundred yards.

From a spectacular point of view the engagement was disappointing, for only an extended line of brownish-grey helmets was visible, as the French Foreign Legion, taking excellent cover, maintained a rapid fire upon a practically unseen foe. Beyond the short crack of the rifles, the peculiar screech of the bullets, and the occasional pop-pop-pop of the machine guns, there was little to indicate that the troops were engaged, for the slightest mist given out by the smokeless powder was quickly dispersed in the scorching atmosphere. Occasionally two men would stagger to the rear with a wounded comrade, place their motionless burden in a position of comparative safety, and resume their places in the firing-line, while members of the field ambulance party would cluster round the "case" like flies to a honey-pot.

Presently Devereux became aware of a sharp zip somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear. Instinctively he ducked, and at the same time was almost blinded by a shower of sand thrown up by a spent bullet that struck the ground barely ten paces in front of him.

In his excitement he grew angry.

"What do the bounders mean by taking pot-shots at me?" he growled; but the next instant he realised that he was crossing the danger zone, in which the bullets of the Berbers—who frequently aimed too high—were coming to earth a good eight hundred yards in the rear of the French lines.

Prudence suggested that Devereux should take cover behind some friendly rock and watch developments, but there was Craddock still making his way onwards towards the fringe of skirmishers. Where the Moonshine was the Intelligence must surely be.

The American had reduced the pace of his horse almost to a walk—a circumstance that Devereux thought remarkable if not foolhardy. As Devereux drew nearer he saw that Craddock's mount was limping badly, with a bullet graze on its fetlock; but ere the young Englishman could hail the other the horse suddenly reared, then, falling to the ground with a dull thud, pitched its rider over its mane.

By the time the Intelligence special had joined the American, Craddock regained his feet and ruefully contemplated his lifeless steed.

"Hurt?" asked Devereux, laconically.

"Hurt? As dead as a door-nail, I guess. A hundred and twenty dollars gone bust!"

"But yourself?"

"No; but I guess I'm a fool to try that sort of game, sonny. Ought to have taken cover straight away. It's getting a bit thick. Here, turn your precious animal loose, and let's lie low over there."

But Devereux was loth to leave his patient steed in the open. Nevertheless he dismounted and led the ass to the shelter of a few palms in the rock-enclosed depression. For nearly a quarter of an hour the two correspondents watched the skirmish, till the Moorish fire began to slacken, and the French, by alternate rushes by companies, began to press home the attack.

"Now's our chance!" exclaimed Craddock, replacing his field-glasses and shutting the case with an emphatic snap. "We'll make for the rear of those fellows on the right flank."

Unscathed the two correspondents gained their desired position, and were soon following up the extended line of infantry, who, advancing by short rushes and dropping on one knee, were taking rapid yet careful aim at the dull red spurts of flame betwixt the palm-trees.

"It's not going to be much, after all," exclaimed Devereux. "The Berbers are bolting already."

"Don't be too cocksure, sonny," replied Craddock, glancing towards the oasis as he paused in the act of writing in his note-book. "They are——"

A loud, irregular discharge of musketry in the rear caused the two correspondents, and many of the French infantry, to turn their heads and gaze with mingled feelings at the new danger that threatened.

Out of a khor in the ground already traversed by the French troops poured nearly a thousand Moorish hillmen, and in a moment the right flank of the invaders was cut off and surrounded, while the centre and left flanks, taken completely by surprise, were compelled to execute a hasty, yet comparatively disciplined, strategic movement to the rear.

"We're fairly trapped, by George!" ejaculated Devereux .

"Right for once," replied Craddock, coolly. "Stand by with your revolver. Those varmints won't recognise the rights of non-combatants, I guess."

The Berbers love nothing better than to come to close quarters with their foes; and the gallant Foreign Legion realised that once their ferocious adversaries came to hand-to-hand blows their own chances would be small. Yet, in spite of the deadly magazine-rifle fire, the mountaineers rushed in and were soon crossing steel with the French troops who, shoulder to shoulder or back to back, defended themselves by bullet and bayonet.

Presently Devereux became aware that the hammer of his revolver was snapping harmlessly upon empty chambers. Hastily throwing open the heated weapon he began to thrust fresh cartridges into the six cylinders. But ere he could complete his task Craddock lurched violently against his companion, and dropped inertly upon the sand. As in a dream the Englishman saw his confrère's note-book slip from the American's grasp. Instinctively Devereux stooped, picked it up, and thrust it into his own hip-pocket; and, standing astride the prostrate form of his companion, prepared to defend both the American and himself to the last.

Feverishly he strove to insert the remaining cartridges into the chambers, but before this could be accomplished the butt-end of a rifle, wielded by a desperate Legionnaire, caught the Englishman a glancing blow, on the temple ere it descended with a crash upon the skull of a Moor.

Thousands of lights flashed before Devereux's eyes, and, clapping his hands convulsively to his head, he fell unconscious across the body of his comrade and rival.

When Devereux came to his senses he found himself lying on the ground in the shade of a date-palm; his head was throbbing painfully, while his arms seemed numb and devoid of muscular action. For some minutes he lay still, wondering where on earth he could be, till the events of the sanguinary conflict came home to him.

"The interests of the Intelligence must be your first consideration." The words re-echoed in his mind like a hollow mockery. Something pressing against his hip told the young special that his note-book, and Craddock's as well, were so far safe; but to what purpose? Apparently they had escaped the attention of the Moors, for everything else of value had been taken from him.

He turned his head with an effort, and saw Craddock lying by his side.

"Hello, sonny! We're in a pickle, I guess." Devereux attempted to rise, but found that he was securely bound, hand and foot.

"No use," continued the American, grimly. "They've trussed us up, sure enough."

"We are prisoners?"

"I guess so. Look over there."

With an effort Devereux rolled over on to his left side. It was a strange sight that met his view. He was lying in a valley surrounded on three sides by lofty hills. A large part of the ground was occupied by a Berber encampment. Between the irregular lines of camel-haired tents swarmed hundreds of Moors, clad in long, loose, white garments. Camels, horses, flocks, and bundles of merchandise were huddled together promiscuously, while women and children had taken the risk of being at the seat of war, and were mingling with the throng.

The Berbers were evidently on the point of celebrating their victory, for half a dozen Moors were making ready with drums and weird-looking wind instruments to provide the music for their companions' edification and amusement.

"Where are the French troops?" asked Devereux.

"Having a rest behind the walls of Fez, I guess," replied the American. "Or those that got away, anyhow," he added, grimly.

"What's going to happen to us, d'you think?"

"Better not ask, sonny. Too many questions on a hot day are bad for the liver."

Both men relapsed into silence, and watched the movements of their captors. In a few moments the dance of victory was in full swing, till the participants literally worked themselves up into a frenzy.

Suddenly above the clash of the beating of the drums came a succession of sharp reports, followed by a long-drawn whirr.

As if by magic the dancers ceased their exertions, and gazed skywards. The captives also looked in the direction of the strange sounds.

"An aeroplane!" gasped Devereux.

"Right you are," assented Craddock. "We'll be right down lucky if we escape being blown sky-high. Look, the fellow is going to drop a bomb."

Soaring swiftly towards the Berber encampment was one of the French monoplanes. Instead of the usual complement of two only one man controlled the graceful flyer.

Presently, when almost over the camp, he tilted the planes, then, leaning sideways, let fall a small, black object.

The Moors knew their danger, and began to rush for shelter in the clefts of the rocks. Dropped from a height of about five hundred feet, the bomb struck earth, and exploded with a terrific detonation.

From where they lay the two captives could not see the effect upon the flying Berbers; but several of their camels and horses were struck down by the fragments of the missile, while the correspondents were nearly smothered in showers of sand thrown up by the concussion.

"The fellow has spotted us," exclaimed Devereux. "He's coming to the rescue."

The monoplane alighted with hardly a jar at less than twenty paces from the two prisoners.

Giving a hurried yet careful glance around to make sure that the Moorish mountaineers had not recovered from the shock and were returning, the aviator stepped to the ground.

He was a young man, probably not more than twenty years of age, and was clad in the active service rig of a lieutenant of engineers.

"Messieurs, I am thankful to be of service—at least to one of you," he exclaimed in his own language, with which Craddock was perfectly familiar, although his companion had but a smattering of French.

"You must know," continued the officer, as he deftly severed their bonds, "that this monoplane will carry but two. You must therefore decide, and that quickly, which of you will accompany me. The other must take his chance of escape as best he can."

"You understand?" asked Craddock of his English confrère .

"Yes, I understand."

"Then off you get."

"Me—why? It's not fair. We are free to a certain extent, so let's make a dash for it."

"Don't be a fool, Devereux. Why should two be sacrificed for one? You're the youngest so get."

"It's not playing the game."

"Hang it! Get, I say, or I'll kick you on to the beastly monoplane!"

But Devereux refused to take the proffered chance; Craddock was equally obstinate. The airman began to look anxious.

"We can't decide, monsieur."

"Then I must do so for you. Will you abide by my decision?" asked the lieutenant. " Bon! "

Drawing a cigarette-case from his pocket the Frenchman produced two cigarettes. One he deliberately broke in two, and threw one half on the ground.

Then he turned his back to the two men for one brief instant, then faced them once again. In his closed hand were the whole and the broken cigarette, the tips showing evenly side by side.

"Choose, monsieur," he exclaimed, extending his hand towards Devereux. "The whole cigarette means safety. Do not hesitate, for I see the Moors are showing signs of returning."

The Englishman drew the broken one.

"That's done it, Craddock," he exclaimed, grimly. "Off you go. By the bye, here's your note-book."

"How did you get hold of it?" asked the American, acutely , and not without suspicion.

"You dropped it when you fell, and I picked it up," replied Devereux, simply. "Look here, here's my copy. You might, as a favour, wire it on as soon as you can for me."

"I will, sonny; but an hour after I've sent mine off to the Moonshine . Personal feelings must stand aside when journalism is at stake. All's fair in the news hunt, you know. Well, good-bye, and good luck."

And, wringing the Englishman's hand, the American sprang into the saddle-like seat. The French officer paused only to hand his revolver to the Englishman with a significant gesture, then climbed into the seat in front of the good-as-rescued man. The propeller began to hum, and the monoplane rose gracefully in the air, raising a column of sand as high as a four-storeyed house.

For a moment Devereux was thunderstruck. An hour after the Moonshine received its copy the Intelligence would be blank as far as its war news was concerned.

Yes, Craddock had scored.

Devereux gave a hasty glance in the direction of the Berber encampment. There were several hieries still left unscathed, and were peacefully browsing on the spot where they had been left hobbled. But the Englishman dared not trust himself to seek safety in flight on the precarious perch that a racing camel affords. Good luck! There was a horse—a swift, powerful-looking beast by its appearance.

Casting off the halter the Englishman vaulted into the saddle and urged the beast into a gallop, using the leather thong in place of spurs. Nobly the animal responded, and soon Devereux had left the mountains behind and was speeding over the sandy, tree-dotted waste.

Just then a rifle cracked, and a bullet whistled over his head. The Berbers were in close pursuit. Bending as far over the horse's neck as the high-peaked saddle would permit, Devereux urged his steed by word and action. One rapid glance behind showed him that the pursuers—for the most part mounted on hieries—were hot in his tracks. In the soft sand he knew that the swiftest horse would stand a poor chance against the ship of the desert.

There were nine of the pursuers; enough, in all conscience, and the odds were greatly against him. They were gaining.

Drawing the Frenchman's revolver Devereux swung himself round, took rapid aim, and fired. A bullet singing past his ear affected his aim, and the shot was thrown away; but the second brought a camel and his rider headlong to the ground.

This mishap caused the Moors to hesitate, and the pursued gained a little; till, with redoubled spirit and furious erratic firing, the pursuers resumed the chase with renewed energy.

With four cartridges left in his revolver, and eight Moors to be accounted for, could he hope for safety? The sickening truth came home to the fugitive: his horse was floundering.

Suddenly the animal's legs gave way beneath it, and it sank to the ground, throwing Devereux over its head. Fortunately the ground was soft and broke his fall; and in an instant the Englishman had regained his feet, a shot grazing his ribs as he did so. One glance showed him that his horse was dead.

Throwing himself down behind the carcase of the horse Devereux rested his revolver over the body, and took careful aim. He realised that if he could get in three successful shots the Berbers might draw off. If not, there would be only one cartridge left, and the Englishman, knowing that a slow and painful death awaited a recaptured prisoner, swore that he would never be taken alive.

The Moors were dismounting from their lofty steeds, with the evident intention of surrounding and rushing their solitary foe.

Bang! Down went one white-robed figure, pitching heavily into the sand.

Bang! Bang! Two more. Devereux handled his weapon ostentatiously, yet durst not discharge his remaining cartridge.

A regular fusillade came from the rifles of the remaining Berbers; but, although the range was short and many of the bullets came perilously close, none actually hit the desperate man at bay.

Seeing this the attackers made ready to resort to their natural tactics, and, placing their rifles on the ground, drew their swords and grasped their spears, and began to extend, preparatory to rushing their foeman's position.

"Another half a minute will see the wind-up of Jack Devereux," muttered the young Englishman, as he took careful aim at the nearest of his assailants—although he had no intention of using his last cartridge on him. But the action was thrown away, for the Moor, scorning the levelled weapon, bounded forward with a fierce yell, his companions following his example.

Devereux hesitated. He felt unwilling to turn the weapon on himself until his foes were almost within striking distance.

But the rush never matured. The Moors suddenly checked their furious onslaught. One swarthy Berber pointed with his scintillating blade in the direction of the city, and the five turned and ran towards their hobbled camels.

Devereux looked over his shoulder, scarce daring to hope when hope seemed dead.

Speeding across the desert was a troop of heavy French cavalry. He realised that he was saved in the nick of time.

In the stifling heat of the courtyard of the Press Censor's office at Fez, Devereux rewrote his dispatch with feverish haste. The chance of a great scoop was once more in his favour, for he learnt that the monoplane, through a mishap, had come to earth about four miles from the city. Craddock and his rescuer were in no real danger, and might be expected to arrive at any moment.

In his shirt-sleeves, his head throbbing like a steam-engine, and his limbs as stiff as a rusty piston-rod, Devereux wrote as he had never written before. He had seventeen minutes to complete his task, for he knew that the Censor's office closed at a quarter to five, and at any moment he himself might be forestalled by his journalistic rival.

Metaphorically blind to the world, heedless of what was going on around him, Devereux stuck gamely to his task till the final sentence was completed. It was twenty minutes to the fateful hour.

The little lean-faced French officer took the proffered "copy," and began to read it in quite a leisurely manner.

"Good!" thought Devereux; "take your time. Now you've started you must finish; but I hope you won't before closing time."

At exactly the three-quarters the Censor viséed the dispatch, and handed it back to the correspondent. With a hurried expression of thanks, Devereux took his leave, saw with satisfaction the officer motion to an orderly to close the door, and continued his way to the post and telegraph office.

"Hurrah! The Intelligence will have it in time for the morning edition," he exclaimed; as he stumbled out of the telegraph office, having waited to make sure that the operator had made a move.

Meanwhile Craddock, mounted on a wretched transport mule, ambled into the city. He grumbled mightily when he discovered that the Censor's office was closed for the night; but reflecting that gold might do the trick, he borrowed some money from an obliging officer, and made his way to the telegraph office.

"Pardon, monsieur, but this dispatch does not bear the official stamp," said the operator, suavely. "Without being viséed I can do nothing but refuse to accept it."

Craddock was checkmated. Persuasion and bribery alike were thrown away, and disgustedly he prepared to return to his quarters.

"Anyway, to-morrow will do," thought he. "I've scored, after all's said and done. I'm sorry for that youngster, though. He was green, but he had grit. It's a pity he's gone under. Well, it's the fortune of war, I suppose."

Entering the quarters assigned to the Press representatives the American suddenly pulled up and stood stock still, with his eyes bulging out of his head, and his mouth wide open.

He was face to face with Jack Devereux.

"Done you this time, Craddock," exclaimed the Intelligence man, affably.

"Snakes! You don't mean to say that you've——"

"Certainly," replied Devereux, throwing himself wearily upon his couch, and stifling a yawn. "To quote your own words: personal feelings must stand aside when journalistic reputation is at stake."

"How," began Craddock, bewildered and angry; "how——" He stopped abruptly, for his successful rival was sound asleep.

Next morning the Intelligence came out with two and three-quarter columns of news from the front, while the Moonshine's space reserved for the latest war news was as vacant as the expression on the face of its puzzled editor.

Jack Devereux had made his scoop and his reputation in one stroke.

I

"IT'S no use, Harry. We're losing on every tack."

"Yes, I know. We've drifted quite fifty yards from that buoy. Shake her up while I let go for'ard. We'll bring up here for the night and carry on up to Flapperham with to-morrow's flood tide."

Harry Armitage, owner and skipper of the little 3-ton cutter Spray , made his way for'ard. The head sails were quickly lowered, with a rush and a rattle the chain cable flew through the fairlead, and with her mainsail flapping in the keen breeze, the Spray brought up head to wind and tide.

"Now then, bear a hand with the mainsail, Jack; the sooner we get this business over the better, for we're in for a dirty night." Jack Standish, who filled every capacity on board the Spray that the skipper didn't, joined his companion and began to cast off the throat-halliards.

"Aren't we too close to the powder-ship?" he asked, indicating a hulk that loomed up darkly against the evening sky—a sky full of angry tints from deep indigo to pale yellow.

"Too close? We're more than the prescribed 200 yards off. If you're afraid she'll blow up, we may just as well be here as any other part of the harbour, for I believe she has over a thousand tons of cordite on board."

"I don't mind if you don't, only——"

"Only what?"

"I wish we were a little further off. I don't know why, but the fact remains that I do."

The powder-hulk, whose name and description appear in the Navy List, under the list of hulks available for harbour service, as Bikanir , 4th rate, 2,720 tons, hulk, floating powder magazine, R.N. Ordnance Depot Sandborough.

She was one of five vessels built of teak in Bombay. Shorn of her tapering masts, "housed in," and painted a bright red, she lay moored in upper Sandborough Creek. Day and night a red flag fluttered in the breeze, and day and night reliefs of two water-policemen belonging to the Metropolitan Police, keep watch and ward over the highly explosive cargo, the ignition of which would mean the total destruction of every vessel and building within two miles of her, and immense damage done to the town and dockyard of Sandborough. Apart from the deadly monotony of an eight hour watch the two ship-keepers whose duty compels them to be on board from ten at night till six in the morning have a most uncomfortable time. Without lights or fires they have to exist—keeping a sharp look-out for possible danger, while they have instructions to make use of their revolvers if suspicious characters come within a certain distance of the floating magazine.

Should a fire break out, the ship-keepers have a few patent extinguishers and an obsolete manual pump. While one man has to do his best with these appliances, the other has to take a boat and row off to a smaller hulk. Here are kept lanterns, rockets, and matches. Three red lanterns displayed are the signal that a conflagration has broken out, but the regulations say nothing as to what is likely to occur between the discovery of the flames and the completion of the lengthy task of procuring and exhibiting the danger-lamps.

Within a quarter of an hour from the time they let go the anchor, the Spray was snugged down, the riding-lamp was hoisted to the fore-stay, and the crew turned into the small but comfortable cabin for supper.

At about a quarter to ten the two lads—both of them were eighteen years of age—heard the shrill blast of a steam-whistle above the howling of the wind.

"There's the police-launch taking the reliefs," said Jack. "Let's turn out and have a look at the poor bounders."

"All right," assented Harry, but as he gained the well, he turned and exclaimed hurriedly, "Look sharp—hand me that light. Our riding-lamp's blown out, and the launch is bearing down straight for us."

It was an anxious moment, but to the lads' relief the red and green steaming lights of the launch changed to red alone, and the craft swept past the yacht at less than five yards distance.

"Good night, sergeant," shouted Harry, as the glare from the boat's furnace lit up the rugged features of the coxswain. Both lads knew the man well, for the Spray was a frequent visitor to Sandborough Harbour.

"Good night, sir," replied the sergeant. "Where's your riding light? We——"

The remainder of the sentence was lost in the howling breeze.

"Bring that riding-light down. I never knew the thing to play me this trick before," exclaimed Harry.

But with unaccountable obstinacy the lamp refused to burn.

"We must stand by till the launch returns," said Jack. "After that I don't think there will be any more traffic till morning. Besides we are close in to the edge of the mud."

Some minutes later the police-launch with the relieved men passed, and was lost to sight in the darkness. The hulk, too, was invisible in the blackness of the night. Except for the distant arc-lamps in Sandborough Dockyard, where men were working in successive shifts upon a battle-ship now nearing completion, the Spray was surrounded by a veil of impenetrable night.

"We may as well turn in," remarked Harry, "especially as we have to be up early if we are to catch the young flood."

"Going to leave the lamp in the cabin?"

"No, what for? It's rotten having to sleep with a light swinging to and fro three feet above your head."

Ere long Harry was sleeping soundly, but Jack lay awake upon his narrow bunk. Though used to the lap of the water against the yacht's side and the mournful moaning of the wind through the rigging, there was something—which he could not explain—that drove slumber from him. Even the ticking of the clock seemed to add to his inexplicable feeling of uneasiness.

Presently he heard the sound of oars; not good lusty strokes, but cautious, half-hearted pulls. The dip of the blades was just audible above the noise of the wind, but the usual sound of creaking of tholes or rowlocks was absent. Whoever it was rowing at this time of the night, they were up to no good, thought Jack, because the oars were muffled.

"Perhaps it's some beachcombers coming to sneak some of the yacht's gear," he muttered. "I'll rouse Harry." But ere he could make up his mind to do so the sound of the dipping blades grew fainter and fainter. No doubt the yacht, showing no light, had been unnoticed in the darkness.

"I'm hanged if I can stand this any longer," exclaimed the sleepless youth. "I'll turn out and have a look round."

Fumbling in the darkness he found an oilskin coat with a sou'wester stuffed into one of the pockets. After a tough struggle with the refractory coat, which had stuck together in many places, Jack managed to scramble into the obstinate yet serviceable garment. Well it was that he did so, for on gaining the well he found that a light driving rain was falling.

"Might just as well stick it," he continued, and sheltering behind the after bulkhead of the cabin he looked into the darkness. He tried to locate the powder-hulk. Her approximate position he knew, but there was no visible sign of the storehouse of potential energy.

A thousand tons of cordite. The words seemed to revolve in his mind with persistent frequency. One pound of cordite, under pressure, would blow a man to smithereens; there are 2,240 pounds in a ton; in a thousand tons——

"Whatever is the matter with my nerves to-night?" he exclaimed. "They seem all on edge. To-morrow I'll——"

Suddenly a lurid red flash, quickly followed by a second, pierced the darkness. A brief instant later and two muffled reports, just audible above the now strong gale reached his ears. They were revolver shots, and they came from the powder-hulk.

II

"WAKE up, old man!" exclaimed Jack, darting into the cabin and shaking his comrade.

"What's up?" asked Harry, awake in a moment.

"There's something up on board the powder hulk. They're firing."

Harry deliberately struck a match, lit the cabin lamp, then looked his chum squarely in the face. But Jack, blinking in the light, seemed too genuinely excited to play a practical joke; besides, his streaming oilskins showed that he had been outside for some considerable time.

"What do you think is the matter?"

"Goodness knows; but—rather a strange thing—a boat passed us some time ago."

"Why strange?"

"She was rowing with muffled oars."

"Oh! We may as well go and have a look at the hulk. Are you game?"

"Yes," replied Jack simply. His sense of uneasiness had now entirely left him, and beyond a tingling sensation in his throat he felt fairly calm and collected.

"Cast off the painter, then," ordered Harry, as he completed his hasty toilet. "I may as well take my revolver, though it's not up to much."

The Spray , like many other small yachts, carried a revolver, for use in case of emergency. As the skipper remarked, you might have the weapon on board for a lifetime and never require it. On the other hand, you might find it useful for summoning assistance. This particular pistol had seen its day. It was an old-fashioned percussion-capped Colt, taking nearly five minutes to load. Its owner habitually kept one chamber, upon which the hammer rested, empty; three were loaded with powder only, the remaining two had cylindrical bullets in addition to the charge. If the weapon did not miss fire—which was more than possible—it could be relied upon to make a deafening row, if nothing else.

Thrusting the revolver into the pocket of his thick pea-jacket, whence its muzzle projected a good two inches, Armitage jumped into the stern-sheets of the nine-foot dinghy. Jack shipped the oars and pushed off in the direction of the invisible hulk.

It was a strong pull, for the light cockleshell had to make headway against a strong wind and tide, but Standish stuck to his task and "kept his eyes in the boat," guided only by the direction of his companion's extended hand.

"Steady now," cautioned Harry, as the bare outlines of the Bikanir began to loom up in the darkness. "We're out of the tide here."

"And a thundering good job too," muttered Jack, pausing for one instant to wipe the raindrops from his face.

Rowing with the utmost possible silence he brought the dinghy under the stern of the hulk. Here, sheltered from the wind, the lads held on to a massive mooring-chain, and waited.

Beyond the shrieking and hissing of the wind as it eddied past the old two-decker, there was nothing to be heard. The hulk seemed a silent as the tomb.

"I believe you're mistaken," whispered Armitage; "perhaps those fellows you heard in the boat were wild-fowling by night."

"That won't do," replied Standish. "Firing is prohibited within the limits of the Dockyard Port of Sandborough, and this part lies well within the boundary. Come on—let's pull round to the gangway, only, if we're challenged, we must reply pretty promptly, or the consequences might be awkward."

As the two lads approached the wooden ladder they found that there were two boats made fast to the gangway. This looked suspicious, for the watch-keepers were allowed one only, for the purpose of communicating with the lamp-boat in case of emergency.

"That's not a government boat," whispered Armitage pointing to the outside one, a kind known as a wherry. The boat was now within arm's length, and taking hold of the gunwale, Harry peered into the mysterious craft.

With a stifled exclamation he released his hold with a strong shove, and the dinghy immediately drifted down stream.

"Pull in under the stern again," whispered Armitage excitedly.

"What is it?" demanded Standish.

"There are two dead men lying on the bottom-boards of that boat."

"Then the police have shot them. Those were the two shots I heard."

"Do you think so?" asked Harry. "It's the other way about, I fancy. If the water-police had fired the shots they would have signalled for assistance as soon as possible. No, Jack; I'm afraid it's like this. Some rascals have shot the two watchmen and are up to some villainy."

"Perhaps they are not dead after all."

"May not be," assented Harry. "Come on; I've got over the shock now. We'll see what's to be done."

Curiously enough both lads had no thought of rowing off to the nearest ship for assistance. The fact that two unfortunate beings might perhaps be badly injured, and in want of immediate aid urged them to renew their investigations.

Once more the two boats rubbed sides. Standish held on while his comrade clambered softly into the larger craft, and bent over the two motionless forms lying on the bottom-boards.

They were the water-police. Armitage could distinguish the peaked cap of one of the men. As he cautiously touched the form nearest to him the man writhed. He was bound and gagged.

"Steady there!" whispered Harry. "I'm Armitage. You know—the fellow in the yacht."

The man nodded his head in assent; and his rescuer, now satisfied that he would not receive a blow from the brawny fist of the policeman, deftly removed the gag and severed the man's bonds.

"Be careful with my mate, sir," said the first policeman. "He's been plugged."

The second watchman was quite conscious, and when released, Armitage found that the man had been shot through the left arm. The wound was caused by a small-bore automatic pistol, and had cut so clean a hole that there was very little bleeding.

In a few words the first man, whose name was Smith, whispered the story of what had occurred. Five men had boarded the Bikanir , and unperceived had gained the upper deck. Attracted by the voices of the watchmen, who were conversing under the poop-deck, the rogues made a sudden attack upon the unprepared ship-keepers. Smith was thrown on his back, without a struggle, but Adams, the other man, drew his revolver to fire at his assailants. Ere he could take aim he was shot through the left arm, and the sudden sting of the bullet caused him to press the trigger of his weapon and send the charge into the air. A sharp tap on the head knocked all power of resistance out of Adams, and the two men, bound and gagged, were placed in the boat alongside.

"Hadn't we better row you ashore?" said Armitage.

"Won't do," replied Adams grimly. "This wound of mine isn't anything to speak of. We've made a mistake in getting taken unawares, but the Force don't recognise mistakes. Come along, Tom—let's tackle the fellows."

"I'm game," replied Smith, "Blest if the silly fools ain't left me my revolver!" Sure enough, the weapon was still in the man's holster. "Look here, gents, if I was you I would clear off as fast as you can. There's no knowing what them chaps are up to with the magazine."

"Not I," replied Armitage quickly. "I've a revolver with me—not much of a one—but it may come in handy. How about you, Jack?"

Standish thought of the thousand tons of cordite, but in quite a different way from what he had done in the night. He meant to do his best to save the stuff from doing incalculable harm to life and property.

"I'm with you," he replied.

"Then the sooner we tackle the job the better," continued Smith. "Those cowardly brutes may look over the side at any moment, although it's precious dark down here."

Revolver in hand Smith crept softly up the ladder; Armitage, who had turned the chamber of his weapon so that one of the loaded charges would be fired first, followed at his heels; while Standish and the wounded policeman brought up the rear.

Unobserved they gained the entry-port. The five rascals were bending over the main hatchway, beneath which the explosives are stored. The stout padlock and securing bars were rapidly giving way under the persuasion of a file and a couple of crowbars.

"Make your way aft," whispered Smith, "We'll pepper 'em from there."

Just as the hatch-cover was burst open the four made a dash for the shelter of the poop-deck. Standish tripped over a ring-bolt and fell headlong, but Smith turned, picked him up as easily as if he were a mere child, and dragged him under cover, to the accompaniment of a regular fusillade of shots from the automatic pistols of the five determined villains.

"What are you afraid of?" shouted one of the men in a guttural voice, for some of the desperadoes were running forward. "Come with me and settle them properly. They have no pistols."

With that the men stopped their flight, hung together for a few seconds, then advanced, firing wildly as they did so.

Fortunately the poop deck was barricaded off by a 5 in. oak bulkhead, sheathed with steel, that extended down to the hold, thus completely isolating the magazine from the after part of the ship.

Revolver in hand Tom Smith waited, but Armitage, in his inexperience, was not so cautious. Raising his weapon he fired into the cluster of advancing men. The revolver did go off this time, with a lurid tongue of flame and a livid report that completely out-voiced the sharp crack of the automatic pistols. But the bullet found no human billet. It had the result of causing the attackers to turn tail and make precipitately for the shelter of the fo'c'sle.

"Pity you didn't reserve your fire, sir," said the policeman reprovingly. "We might have bagged a couple of them at the least."

"I'm sorry," replied Harry.

"Maybe someone ashore will hear the report," continued Smith. "It was like a small cannon going off."

"I'm afraid not," said Jack. "I could only just hear the sound of the first shots, and we are lying less than three hundred yards off. The wind is so high."

"Then perhaps they'll see the flashes," added the man optimistically. "At any rate, we can keep the brutes from tampering with the magazine. They won't dare come aft since they know we've firearms, the white-livered skunks!" Then came a lull. The desperadoes lay still within their defences, while their antagonists kept on the qui vive ready to open fire at the first sign of renewed activity on the part of their foes.

"We've trapped them!" exclaimed Armitage, who was busily engaged in breaking out bullets from the policeman's cartridges and ramming them into the chambers of his revolver. "It will be daylight in an hour."

"The relief boat doesn't turn up till six," observed Adams. "I reckon they won't wait till then. They will make a bolt for it."

"We'll cut off their retreat then," added his comrade. "Look here, sir," addressing Standish. "Do you think you could manage to pull off to the light-boat and get the lanterns and the rockets?"

"I'll have a shot at it," replied Jack, although he did not relish the idea of making his way across the upper deck to the gangway and being the target for five automatic pistols.

"No, not that way," exclaimed Smith hurriedly, as Jack prepared to make a dash across the danger zone. "Can you swim? Good. Slip your things off and I'll lower you from the stern gallery. You can then swim to your boat and row off for the gear."

"Look here," exclaimed Standish as he was divesting himself of his clothing. "I wonder if I could tow the other two boats with our dinghy? Then the rascals' retreat would be fairly cut off."

"Not against this wind, even though the tide has turned," replied Smith. "You'd find yourself blown half way up to Flapperham in a brace of shakes. But I'll tell you what. There's plenty of rope on board. You might run off a line to the light-boat, and haul the other boats off to her. When you get to your dinghy pull up under the stern and I'll drop a coil down to you."

"Now I'm ready," announced Jack.

"Bill," exclaimed the policeman, addressing his comrade. "Hang on to my pistol for half a shake, while I lower this gent. How's your arm?"

"Fairly nippy, but it's of no consequence, being my left," replied the man. "When you've been shot through the stomach with a Mauser bullet and through the forearm with a soft-nosed bullet like I have, a little scratch like this don't signify."

It was horribly cold, being lowered feet foremost into the water. Jack would have much preferred to take a header, but once fairly in the chilliness vanished, and he struck out for the gangway, keeping close to the barnacled side of the towering hulk.

Clambering into the dinghy, he rowed to the stern of the Bikanir and took the coil of rope on board. The execution of his plan necessitated a double journey; first to the light-boat, then to the two boats tied to the gangway; then back to the light-boat, to which he hauled the sole means of the desperadoes' escape. This done he took the three red lanterns, half a dozen rockets, and a box of matches, and returned to the powder hulk.

"Now what's to be done with the dinghy?" he exclaimed, after he had fastened the procured articles to a rope and sent up to Armitage who was ready to receive them. "We can't leave her made fast here, and we don't want to turn her adrift."

"Throw up your painter and make fast the rope to the after ring-bolt—we'll haul her up to the stern-gallery," replied Harry. "Look sharp; they're going to send up a rocket and then the fun will commence. The lanterns are already lighted."

"I thought the fun commenced a long time ago," remarked Standish as he swarmed up the rope and gained the stern-walk.

"Now then, sir, stand by for a rush," continued Smith, gripping his revolver resolutely, as Adams struck a match and held it to the touch-paper of the rocket.

Swish! With a rush and a roar the rocket soared skywards, and, bursting, gave out a brilliant blue light that threw the deck of the hulk into strong relief.

It was like disturbing a nest of wasps. The five men emerged from the fo'c'sle. Four of them ran blindly for the gangway. Smith's revolver cracked, and one pitched forward on the deck, jerked his limbs once or twice and then lay still. This time the shot failed to stop the rush. The policeman fired again while Armitage, cocking and discharging his antiquated weapon as fast as the could, joined in the attempt to repulse the rush. But, apparently unscathed, the three gained the entry-port and disappeared down the ladder.

"Bad luck to 'em!" exclaimed Smith as he ejected the smoking cylinders from his weapon. "They've got to choose now between death by drowning or penal servitude for life. I——"

"Look out," yelled Standish, in accents of alarm.

The fifth man had, unperceived by the defenders, retraced his steps to the fo'c's'le, and now, with a hissing fuse in his hand, was creeping stealthily towards the partly covered main hatch.

"Wing him, or he'll blow the ship to atoms," shouted Smith, as he feverishly thrust fresh cartridges into his revolver. But Armitage had fired his last shot.

The miscreant, knowing by the policeman's shout that he was discovered, bounded over the remaining distance betwixt him and the gaping hold. Then with one foot upon the coaming he raised the lighted fuse. Bang! Bang! Smith's revolver kicked twice in quick succession.

"Got him, by George!" exclaimed the policeman, and the man staggered and clapped his hand to his chest.

But the exclamation of exultation was changed to one of horror as the desperate scoundrel, still grasping the spluttering fuse, lurched forward and disappeared down the hold.

III

FOR fully thirty seconds the policeman and the lads remained rooted to the spot, gazing with horror-stricken faces at the gaping hatchway. The momentary expectation of the explosion—the swift upward blaze of fiery light; the awful concussion, the disintegration of the hulk, was pictured under fearfully realistic conditions. A swift death, yet terrible to contemplate.

Even as they waited they saw the fuse, fanned into flame by its flight, had ignited a part of the hold, and a dull glare was playing upon the sides of the coamings. Yet the explosion had not taken place.

Smith was the first to find his voice.

"Perhaps the fire has fallen clear of the cordite," he gasped. "Man the pump; it's our one chance."

The hose of this relic of years past was fortunately already connected, and the two lads frantically turned the heavy crank while the policeman directed the muzzle. Meanwhile Adams had remembered the extincteurs; but in his excitement he threw them down the hold without attempting to unscrew the patent heads, and this means of fighting the flames was absolutely wasted.

But a few revolutions of the pump resulted in a steady flow of water. The flames turned to smoke, and in a few minutes the danger was passed.

But now the tardy assistance was at hand. Steam-launches and pinnaces from the ships in harbour tore pell-mell towards the signals of distress. Bluejackets, scorning the risk they ran, swarmed up the decks of the Bikanir . Additional hoses were brought into action, and in less than a quarter of an hour the hold was flooded.

Daylight was now breaking. Jack, pale-faced and breathless, pointed to where the Spray was now plainly visible, riding to the flood-tide.

"Let's scoot," said he. "I've had enough of this to last me a lifetime."

"Smith," exclaimed Armitage, "we're off. Mind, we don't want to be dragged into this business."

"Very good, sir, and thank'ee for what you've done," replied the man, earnestly. "I'll tell my mate to keep his mouth shut as far as you are concerned."

Half an hour later the Spray , with her exhausted crew, was beating up channel towards Flapperham.

Strange to relate, it afterwards transpired that there was not a pound of explosive on the hulk. A week previously the ordnance people had removed the cordite to the shore magazine. It was no business of the water police to know what the ordnance men did, and by an oversight that department failed to notify the superintendent of police that the watchmen might be withdrawn.

Who the desperadoes were was never known. The body of the most daring of the miscreants was found, badly burned, in the hold. The man who was shot during the rush to the gangway died in hospital the next day without regaining consciousness; while at low water the bodies of the three men who fled down the ladder were found lying on the mud, so the whole of the active members of the gang were accounted for.

As for Smith and Adams, they did well out of the business, both being made sergeants in recognition—so the report states—"of their bravery in frustrating, when absolutely unsupported , a daring attempt by five unknown miscreants upon the powder-hulk Bikanir ."