“They’re after another of our men,” whispered Handa as he rowed. “They’ll drag him off and lock him up in the factory.”
If five or six pickets were together the truck would drive past; but when one was seen by himself, suddenly it would pull up and from the top down would spring two or three thugs. Then they’d grab the picket roughly by the wrists and drag him up into the truck; it didn’t trouble them how his shins got barked on the steel fastenings on the side. Their attitude was: if you don’t come we’ll kill you.
From beyond a row of houses came a scream. It seemed to shout, “They’ve got me.”
“They’re at it again.”
“That’s what happens when we stay on the defensive, nice and quiet and gentle; the more we’re like that, the more they attack us,” they murmured as they rocked in the boat. Machida’s shoulders and arms trembled from cold and excitement.
“Turn her, turn her,” whispered one man who was standing in the bow.
The boat was just about to bang into the side of the launch. Handa reversed the oar. The boat wheeled round to the left and grazed the launch, coming just below where the cargo was unloaded.
The ship’s hands seemed to be asleep. Sheltered by the high factory buildings, the wind did not reach the pier. Yamaguchi stretched up and, grasping the launch’s iron railing, lightly, like a gymnast, vaulted on to the deck. He turned to the boat and gave some signal. Machida could not
