"But, Marian," Florence expostulated, "it's serious. These winter lake storms are terrible. The ship may go to the bottom any moment. It wasn't built for this. And there may be ice, too. One crack from ice and she'd burst like an eggsh.e.l.l. C'mon, we've got to get lights. Gotta start the engine."

Dragging Marian to her feet, she made her way along the wall to the light switch.

There came a sudden flood of light which brought out in bold relief the havoc wrought by the storm. Tables, chairs, lounge, writing paper, notebooks, shoes, garments of all sorts, were piled in a heap forward.

The heavy carpet was soggy with water.

One glance revealed that. The next instant the lights flickered and went out.

"Have to find a candle," said Florence soberly. "Water on the battery wires. Caused a short circuit. We can't hope to use electricity. Ought to get engine started some way. Got to get a candle. You just--"

"Watch out!" screamed Marian, as she leaped toward a berth.

The O Moo had suddenly shot her prow high in air. The entire contents of the cabin came avalanching down upon them.

Having made his way, in the midst of the storm, to the door of the scow on the dry dock occupied by the Orientals, Mark Pence paused to arrange the cloth strap carefully over his shoulder and to feel in his pocket.

Then he beat loudly upon the door.

As he had expected, he received no answer.

Without further formalities he put his knees to the door and gave it a shove. The flimsy lock broke so suddenly that he was thrown forward.

Losing his balance, he plunged headforemost down a short flight of stairs.

With a low, whispered exclamation he sprang to his feet. Putting his ear to the wall, he listened. There were sounds, low grunts, slight shuffling of feet. It was uncanny. A cold perspiration stood out on his brow.

"Danger here," he whispered as he once more adjusted the cloth strap.

The corridor in which he was standing was dark, but a stream of blue light poured out from beneath a door to his right.

"Hey! You! Come out of there!" he shouted.

Instantly bedlam followed. Doors were flung open. A glaring blue light flooded all.

"O we-ee-ee! O wee-ee-ee," came from every side.

A knife flashed before him. Springing back, he tripped over something, then suddenly plunged downward. He had fallen down the circular stairway.

After a wild dizzy whirl, he reached bottom with a b.u.mp.

Immediately he was on his feet. His hand gripped the bottle. It was dark down here; dark as a dungeon.

"Got to get out of here," he whispered. "Whew! What a lot of them! Twenty or thirty! No use hoping for help from them. Fool for thinking I could.

Got to get out and find help somewhere else--and get out quick. Be coming down."

Drawing something from the case slung across his shoulder, he pulled it down over his face. It was a gas mask, his old war mask, recharged.

Gripping the bottle in his pocket, a bottle of Lucile's quick action gas, he began to climb the stairs.

He had made two-thirds of the distance when, sensing someone close to him, he threw his flashlight open.

Right before him, grinning fiendishly, a knife between his teeth, was a giant Oriental. Mark did not wait for the attack he knew was coming. He drew back his arm. When it swung forward his hand held the bottle of gas--he sent it crashing against the iron post.

The Oriental sprang back up the stairs. Following him closely, Mark made a dash for the door. All about him sounded wild exclamations.

"Gas getting in its work," he muttered, darting among the writhing bodies. He reached the foot of the short stairs which led to the outer door. Now his hand was on the k.n.o.b. And now the door flew open. He was free.

But what was this? Just as he made a dash for it, the gruff voice of someone very near him shouted:

"Here they come. Nail 'em. There's the first one. Got a mask on. Get him!"

That was all he heard, for a stunning blow crashed on his head; he staggered, fell, then all was dark.

CHAPTER XII THE O MOO RIDES THE STORM

Florence and Marian lay clinging to the bare springs of a berth. They had made that point of safety before the avalanche of furniture, books and bric-a-brac had reached their end of the cabin. They were enduring discomforts beyond description. The yacht was now pitching from side to side in an alarming fashion. The wires of the spring on which they rested cut their tender flesh. Their scant clothing was saturated with cold water. The cabin had grown cold. Since the burning of the electric fuses, there was no heat. They were chilled to the bone, yet they dared not move. The heavy furniture, pitching about as it did, was a deadly menace.

Here, above it all, they were safe.

As Florence lay there, benumbed with cold, suffering agonies of suspense, listening to the thud and smash of furniture, the rush and crush of waves that washed the deck, awaiting the crash which was to be the final one, only one question occupied her mind: How and when would the final moment come? She dared not hope that the O Moo would ride such a storm safely.

"Would the O Moo," she asked herself, "turn turtle in the trough of a wave and, floating, mast down, would she hold them there to drown like rats in a cage? Or would some giant wave stave her in to sink to the bottom like a water-soaked log?"

An answer was postponed. The O Moo rode bravely on. They were in the worst of it; she was sure of that. "Ought to get the engine started," she told herself. "Then we could cut the waves; ride them, not wallow along in a trough."

She half rose to attempt to reach the engine room.

"No use," she groaned; "no light. If we fool around with gasoline and a candle we'll blow the whole thing up."

But even as she thought this, she became conscious of a dim light. What could it be? She sat up quickly, then she uttered a hoa.r.s.e laugh.

"First gray streak of dawn," she muttered. Then she thought of Lucile.

"Stay where you are," she said to Marian. "I'm going to try to get to Lucile."

By the aid of the feeble light she saw her opportunity to vault over a careening chair and to make a dash for it. A second later she was at Lucile's side.

"Lucile!" she said softly. "Lucile!"

The girl's eyes were closed. A sudden fear seized Florence and her heart stood still a beat. Was Lucile asleep, unconscious, or--or was she dead?

Over in the darkness and storm by the old scow, Mark Pence was slowly regaining consciousness. At first he imagined that a tiny train of cars was running about on the top of his head. This illusion vanished. He felt something hard in his mouth--tried to think what it was. He had been gagged! That was his first thought. No, that wasn't it. He was breathing through the thing. The mouthpiece to his mask! That was it. He had kept it in his mouth.

He was fully conscious now but did not attempt to sit up. Footsteps were approaching. He heard a voice.

"They got away," a man's voice grumbled.