of the arm. His complicated and graceful parades were an insulting contemptuous gesture of self-acknowledged superiority. His point danced around Master Blythe. The officer was enjoying himself hugely!
If the officer had forgotten himself in a fencing lesson, Master Blythe had not forgotten that he was fighting for a ship—and he had no time for nonsense! Master Blythe's blood-smeared jaw clamped shut. "This has gone far enough!"
The officer's whirring blade darted and Master Blythe, ignoring the niceties of the attack, parried and lunged hard. His time thrust put an end to the fencing lesson! Master Blythe's blade shot through the officer's indifferent guard and slid into his shoulder as smoothly as a surgeon making an incision.
The tall officer's sword arm slowly dropped, his limp fingers opened, his small-sword clattered on the deck. He stared down at Master Blythe, his eyes round with astonishment. "Why, you little beggar!"
"Ship's owner!" Master Blythe corrected, withdrawing his blade from the officer's shoulder. The officer swayed, staggered back and slowly sat down, his hand clutching his shoulder.
Master Blythe whirled then, snatched up the smoldering match from the deck and jumped to the swivel gun. The Newport seamen were finding things difficult. The landlord braced himself against the mainmast, flailed his cutlass like a butcher knife. His blows were effective, but the crowding ring of jacktars made him grunt with exertion. Old Ben and the ape-armed seaman furiously fought to clear the forecastle head. The odds were against them.
"Not so good," Master Blythe muttered. He blew on the match until it glowed brightly. Then sighting the swivel gun on a dozen odd charging Scorpion jacktars, Master Blythe put the match to the touch-hole. The swivel gun bucked, roared, and blasted smallshot.
"Very effective," Master Blythe shuddered. The gray smoke drifted across the littered deck. The cannon had turned the tide. Up forward came a sharp cry of "Quarter! Quarter!" The cry lifted to a chorus! The Scorpion's crew had their bellies full!
"Drive 'em below!" Master Blythe shouted. The Scorpion's shattered crew crowded forward with anxious eyes on the swivel gun. Master Blythe remembered the wounded officer. He swung around—the officer had crawled to the stern rail.
"Haw!" said the officer triumphantly. He jerked his head at the bay. "See?"
Master Blythe saw! Crowded to the gunwales; surging through the water; oars flashing in the moonlight came the Scorpion's longboats! The landing party was returning. They were within two hundred yards of the ship and the oarsmen rowed like mad!
"Hell!" said Master Blythe. He lifted his voice. "Ben! Ben!"
Master Blythe leaned across the deck, dropped beside a blunt muzzled portside carronade. He spun the elevation screw. The carronade dropped. He sighted the gun a little grimly. His battered Newport seamen could never stand against those boarders if they got under the Scorpion's lee!
Old Ben bounded to Master Blythe's side. He saw the approaching longboats. "You'll never hit 'em!"
"Kick those blocks out," Master Blythe snapped. "And pray the braces hold!" He yanked his second pistol out
