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On the deck below them the "rescued" crew of the "Clarinda" had surrounded Mr.

Harding, Captain Norris, and most of the crew of the Lotus, flashing quick-drawn

revolvers from beneath shirts and coats, and firing at two of the yacht's men who

showed fight.

"Keep quiet," commanded Skipper Simms, "an' there won't none of you get

hurted."

"What do you want of us?" cried Mr. Harding. "If it's money, take what you can

find aboard us, and go on your way. No one will hinder you."

Skipper Simms paid no attention to him. His eyes swept aloft to the upper deck.

There he saw a wide-eyed girl and a man looking down upon them. He wondered

if she was the one they sought. There were other women aboard. He could see

them, huddled frightened behind Harding and Norris. Some of them were young

and beautiful; but there was something about the girl above him that assured

him she could be none other than Barbara Harding. To discover the truth Simms

resorted to a ruse, for he knew that were he to ask Harding outright if the girl

were his daughter the chances were more than even that the old man would

suspect something of the nature of their visit and deny her identity.

"Who is that woman you have on board here?" he cried in an accusing tone of

voice. "That's what we're a-here to find out."

Why she's my daughter, man!" blurted Harding. "Who did you--"

Thanks," said Skipper Simms, with a self-satisfied grin. "That's what I wanted to

be sure of. Hey, you, Byrne! You're nearest the companionway--fetch the girl."

At the command the mucker turned and leaped up the stairway to the upper

deck. Billy Mallory had overheard the conversation below and Simms' command

to Byrne. Disengaging himself from Barbara Harding who in her terror had

clutched his arm, he ran forward to the head of the stairway.

The men of the Lotus looked on in mute and helpless rage. All were covered by

the guns of the boarding party--the still forms of two of their companions bearing

eloquent witness to the slenderness of provocation necessary to tighten the

trigger fingers of the beasts standing guard over them.

Billy Byrne never hesitated in his rush for the upper deck. The sight of the man

awaiting him above but whetted his appetite for battle. The trim flannels, the

white shoes, the natty cap, were to the mucker as sufficient cause for justifiable

homicide as is an orange ribbon in certain portions of the West Side of Chicago

on St. Patrick's Day. As were "Remember the Alamo," and "Remember the Maine"

The Mucker