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His face was hard as hammered iron. "Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Sedgwick. I'm master here. When I give the word you will suffer." I turned my head and my eyes fell upon Henry Fleming. He had turned white, shaken to the heart. Beyond him was Neidlinger, and the man was moistening his gray lips with his tongue. The fat cockney looked troubled.
I paid no more attention to him, for the feet of those who had been shooting at us were already scurrying forward. "Blythe," I called in warning. But the captain was engaged with a mutineer who had climbed up in the way Neidlinger had attempted. A second man and I saw in an instant that it was Caine was astride the rail on his way to support the first.
Alderson, Smith, Neidlinger, and Higgins were grouped together on the forecastle deck in amiable chat. Blythe was still at the wheel, and our cheerful friend from the cattle country at the piano bawling out the identical chorus I had interrupted so ruthlessly just before the first blow of the mutiny was struck. He was lustily singing as Evelyn and I trod the deck.
Neidlinger was born in Brooklyn, N.Y., in 1863, and was compelled to earn the money for his own education and for his musical studies. From Dudley Buck and, later, C.C. Muller, of New York, he has had his only musical instruction. He lived abroad for some time, teaching the voice in Paris, then returned to live in Chicago.
Instantly it was withdrawn. The moonlight poured like a spotlight on the uplifted face of the sailor Neidlinger. Never have I seen a look more expressive of stupid, baffled surprise. His mouth was open, his eyes popping. But when I made a motion to aim my revolver he slid down the stanchion with a rush, knocking over the fellow supporting him from below.
"Lower a boat, Neidlinger. Smith will help you. That you, Higgins? Rouse all hands from sleep. We've work afoot." Again came a faint echo across the still waters, followed by two sharper explosions. Some one had brought a rifle into action. Blythe turned to me. "It's my place to stand by the ship, Jack. This may be a ruse to draw us off.
At their heels trooped both engineers, the three firemen, the cook, Johnson, Mack, Gallagher, Dennis, Smith, and Neidlinger. It was not easy to count them, because they shifted to and fro, but I was almost sure they were fourteen. The boatswain carried in his hand a towel, which he was waving. "Crew to have a conference with you, Cap'n Blythe," he called out.
"And he told me all about it. Oh, Jack, I didn't think even Boris would do a thing like that!" She looked up at me with bright, misty eyes. "I asked Gallagher and Neidlinger about it. They both told me how brave you were." "I'm grateful for their certificate of valor," I answered lightly. Before I knew what she was at my sweetheart had stooped to kiss the bruises above my knuckles.
All six were armed. Their weapons covered the mutineers. "Gallagher Neidlinger, don't release that man. You are prisoners all of you," Sam announced curtly. Taken by surprise, the two sailors had ceased to struggle with Bothwell. I could see the master villain's hand slip to the butt of his revolver. My foot came down heavily on his wrist and the fingers fell limp.
Blythe, with Neidlinger, Higgins, our engineers, and the other fireman, took the second day on shore. Morgan was doing the cooking, and so was exempt from service. Dugan, still weak from his wound, was helping in the galley as best as he could. All through the third day it rained hard, but on the fourth I and my detail were back on the job. We were making progress.
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