Page:Cruise of the Dry Dock.djvu/93

 There was a shuffling among the navvies toward the arrowy lad who confronted them. Deschaillon balanced himself on one leg, French boxing fashion, ready to kick out with the deadly accuracy of an ostrich. Hogan gave a brief happy laugh, broken by his jump, the crack of his fist against some jaw and the stumbling of a man.

As the fight flamed down the sweating line, Farnol Greer suddenly rushed through the door. “This is mutiny!” he shouted aloud. “Every man-jack will hang for it by the ship's articles! I'm for you, Mr. Madden!” and he made a surprising assault from the rear.

Madden and Caradoc squared away at each other. The Englishman headed his men, his long face sinister in the lamplight. But he had hardly taken a step when an absolute pallor whitened his countenance, he halted, shaking, gasping, then flung back an arm to Galton.

“I—I'm fizzled out!” he stammered with twitching lips. “Go ahead—fight!”

“You'll hang—you'll hang for it!” bawled Greer, mauling at the men behind.

Caradoc crumpled down on the floor. The