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“Come, mates, he has killed Scott Clemmons, so seize him!” shouted Ben Birney, and he sprung toward the lad, followed by the other three who were made bold by their numbers.

The sailor lad stood at bay now, his face pale, but stern and determined, his eyes ablaze, while in his hands he grasped the hull of his now badly-wrecked ship, making it serve as a weapon of defense.

But ere Ben Birney had reached within arm’s length a form suddenly sprung forward, and a ringing voice cried:

“Back, you young cutthroats, for I’ll take a hand in this unequal game.”

The four youths shrank back as though they had run against a stone wall, for the sailor who had addressed Mark Merrill upon landing now confronted them, and more, he held a revolver in his hand, the muzzle covering the group, his finger upon the trigger.

A crowd had now gathered, and among them the village constable, to whom Ben Birney cried:

“Officer Roe, that fisher boy has killed Scott Clemmons—we saw him do it.”

“It isn’t so, officer, for the fellow is not dead, only stunned; and, besides, he attacked this brave lad with a knife, after the young scamps had smashed his boat to pieces. Arrest them, I say,” said the sailor.