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. He was exuberant now that he
had learned his enemies were human beings and not ghouls.
"Do ye think those Dutchmen will be able to put up a daycent foight,
Misther Madden?" he inquired hopefully.
"They have plenty of arms, Hogan."
"Sure, that'll hilp 'em some. But Oi'm going to knock th' head off the
spalpeen that firrust sticks his mug over that rail."
"Your chance is coming," said Madden soberly, as he listened to the
increasing noise of the oars.
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