The yell of a lookout pealed, couched in pidgin English.

"Tom Too! Him boat come!"

Chapter 17

THE SUNKEN YACHT

THE yellow horde surged for the boats. First arrivals got the seats, to the howling disgust of those behind. There followed a process of natural selection which resulted in the strongest fighters manning the boats. The weaker ones were simply hauled out by the more husky.

Every slant-eyed devil was madly anxious to go along. TomToo was as famous a pirate as ever scourged the China coast. A hand in his slaying would be something to brag to one's grandchildren about when one was an old man and good for nothing but to sit in the shade of the village market and chew betel nut.

A toothless giant, great brass earrings banging against the corded muscles of his neck, grabbed Doc and sought to pluck him out of the largest and fastest launch. The pirate never was quite positive what then befell him. But he staggered back with both hands over a jaw that felt as though it had tried to chew a fistful of dynamite which exploded in the process.

Doc had no intention of being left behind. He wanted to see that Tom Too didn't talk the corsairs out of their murderous intention.

"Let us proceed, my sons!" shrieked one of the men.

The launches rushed across the bay, keeping in a close group.

Doc now had a chance to observe the remainder of the pirate fleet. The vessels were anchored in the bay by the score. The red flush of dawn painted them with a lurid, sinister crimson glow, making them seem craft bathed in blood.

Many were Chinese junks with bluff lines, high poops, and overhanging stems. These were made to appear top-heavy by the high pole masts and big sails with battens running entirely across. The steering rudders, sometimes nothing but a big oar, hung listless in the water.

Many sampans mingled in the fleet, so small as to be little more than skiffs. Some were propelled only with oars, others with sails. All had little matting-roofed cabins in the bows.

The rest of the armada was comprised of sloops and schooners of more prosaic description.

"Tom Too boat, him come in bay chop-chop!" sang a man in beach English.

Doc's golden eyes appraised Tom Too's craft.

The vessel was as pretty a thing as ever graced a millionaire's private wharf. It was a fifty-foot, bridge-deck yacht. Its hull shone with the whiteness of scrubbed ivory. The mahogany of the superstructure had a rich sheen. Brasswork glistened.

Several yellow men stood on the glass-enclosed bridge deck.

"We no waste time in talk-talk!" shouted a pirate furiously. "All same finish job damn quick!"

The group of launches spread out in a half moon. They held their fire until within less than two hundred feet of the pretty yacht.

THEN Maxim guns opened with a grisly roar. The weapons shook and smoked, sucked in ammo belt and spewed empty cartridges. A half dozen slant-eyed men clutched each weapon as though it were a mad dog, to keep recoil jar from throwing it off the target.

Automatic pistols popped; rifles spoke with loud smashes. Doc saw the ancient gun with a barrel of bamboo spit its fistful of pebbles at the yacht like a shower of rain.

Glass enclosing the bridge deck of the yacht literally vanished in the lead storm. The cutthroats inside, taken by surprise, were all but fused together in a bloody mass.

"Sinkum boat!" howled a corsair. "Shoot hole in hull!"

The guns were now turned at the yacht water line. The planking splintered, disintegrated. Water poured in. The yacht promptly listed.

Suddenly there was a terrific blast in the yacht entrails. The hull split wide. A bullet had reached explosive, probably dynamite, carried in the little hold.

The cruiser sank with magical speed. A single yellow head appeared, but the swimmer was callously murdered.

"Tom Too gone join his ancestors!" squawled the killers. Doc Savage would have liked to inquire which of the men in the cruiser cabin had been Tom Too. But he couldn't do that, for he was supposed to have known the pirate king.

The launchers now cruised about in hopes of picking up the body of Tom Too. Many a slant-eyed Jolly Roger expressed a profane desire to possess Tom Too's ears as a souvenir. Bandying ribald jokes as though the whole affair were a lark, the pirates reached an agreement to smoke Tom Too's head and mount it on a pole for all to observe. His body would be skinned, his hide tanned, and each man presented with a piece large enough for a memento. Human fiends, these!

There was much talk as to who had actually killed Tom Too. Many claimed he had not appeared on deck at all, but had remained below like the hiding dog that he was, and had been slain by the explosion.

They didn't find Tom Too's carcass. Disgusted somewhat, they headed for camp to celebrate.

Much strong Chinese wine would be consumed, pots of kaoliang cooked with rice prepared, and those who had opium would divide with those who had none. It would be a jamboree to remember.

Doc Savage ducked away from this uproar at the first opportunity. His work here was done. He would join his waiting friends. A quick flight back to Mantilla, and they would assist Mindoro in setting up machinery which would make short shift of the leaderless pirates.

Doc had not progressed fifty yards from camp when snarling, hissing yellow men set upon him.

THE slant-eyed fellows attacked in silence. Pistols were thrust in their belts. Pockets bulged with hand grenades. Yet they used only the crooked kris and short sword.

It was obvious the assailants wanted to finish Doc without attracting notice from the pirate camp.

Doc sprang backward, at the same time scooping up a wrist-thick bamboo pole which chanced to be underfoot. With this, he delivered a whack that bowled over the first swordsman.

Since they wanted no noise, he decided to make some.

"Help!" he piped in his shrill, assumed tone, "Help! Chopchop!"

Instantly, pirates surged from the camp.

Doc's assailants abandoned their effort at quiet. They plucked out firearms.

Bounding aside, Doc put himself behind the bole of an enormous tree. Bullets jarred into the tree trunk. They did no harm — the attackers could not even see Doc behind the shelter. The tree was a good five feet thick, hiding Doc from view.

The yellow men rushed the tree, came around it from either side.

They stopped and goggled, eyes nearly hanging out.

Their quarry had vanished as though by magic. For twoscore feet up the tree trunk, no branches grew. The possibility that their human game had run up the tree, squirrel fashion, was slow occurring to them.

When they did look up, the foliage at the top of the tree had swallowed Doc.

One of the gang hurled a grenade at the approaching pirates. The explosion killed two men. A short, bloody fight followed. No quarter was given or expected. Four minutes later, not one of Doc's attackers remained alive.

Doc slid down the tree.

"These fella tly kill me," he explained. "Who these fella? How they get this place?"

He spoke in pidgin. The reply was couched in the same slattern tongue.

"These fella belong Tom Too's bodyguald!"

Cold lights came into Doc's strange golden eyes. "How they get this place?"

"We not know."

A short search was pushed in the immediately adjacent jungle, but no skulkers were found. The pirates repaired to their encampment. The preparations for the celebration went forward, although not as boisterously as before. The buccaneers were wondering how the members of Tom Too's personal bodyguard happened to be upon Shark Head Island.

Doc was doing some pondering also. The thoughts which came to him were not pleasant. He had an awful suspicion Tom Too was not dead, after all.