resolved instantly to procure that silence at any cost. Von Staden
reached for his hip pocket, but before he could draw his automatic
pistol and cover the skipper, Michael J. Murphy had hurled ten pounds
of code book into the geometric centre of the supercargo's face. It
was the first weapon his hand closed over, and he did not disdain it.
The instant it landed and von Staden reeled before the blow, Murphy
came out of his state-room with a scuttering rush and von Staden fired
as he came. The captain felt the sting of the bullet as it creased the
top of his left shoulder; then his right fist came up in a blow that
started at his hip and landed fairly under the supercargo's heart. Von
Staden grunted once, the pistol dropped clattering to the deck and he
folded up like an accordion. For him the battle was over.

Not so, however, with Mike Murphy. Gone to the winds now was the
caution he would have exercised had the attack been delayed two
seconds longer; forgotten was the shrewd advice of his owners to have
help standing by when the ship cleaning should commence. Michael J.
Murphy thought of nothing but blood, for the fight had started now and
he was loath to have it cease.

"You bloody murderer!" he growled. "You'd kill me and steal my ship,
would you?" And with the reckless abandon of a sailor he planted the
broad toe of a number nine boot in Herr von Staden's short ribs,
hoping to break a few, for in the process of working his way up from
the bottom Michael had fought under deep-sea rules too often to be
squeamish now. So he kicked Herr von Staden again, after which a
glimmer of reason penetrated his hot head and he walked to pick up the
supercargo's automatic pistol. Then something landed on him from above
and he went down backward. His head struck the deck with a resounding
thump, and Michael J. Murphy had a through ticket to the Land of Nod