force would come armed with mausers, rapid fire guns, grappling hooks, swords. A onesided fight was brewing.
The American looked anxiously at the funnel; a ribbon of black smoke filtered out into the air.
“Madden,” said Caradoc, “they will make the hardest fight around the anchor ports and amidships. Which position do you prefer to defend?”
“I believe I'll take the forecastle.”
“Good, I wish you luck.”
“Same to you.”
As Madden moved down the ladder to the deck, he heard, above the murmur of the busy men, the strong measured beat of a ship's cutter approaching the tug with deliberate swiftness.
There were some good men stationed to defend the forecastle, Hogan, Mulcher, Greer and two or three of the Vulcan's former crew whom Madden did not know. As the American approached in the gloom, two men came up, laden with sacks, and poured out a pile of coal on deck. Every lump was about the size of a baseball.
Hogan recognized Madden in the darkness.
