They reached the raft.

"IT'S a wonder the sharks didn't get you birds, riding that thing," said Doc, surveying the raft.

Monk snorted. He was in high good humor, now that he was one up on Ham.

"This shyster lawyer here wanted to feed me to 'em, claimin' they'd die of indigestion from eatin' me," he chuckled with a sidelong look at Ham. "Fallin' in the mud serves him right for makin' cracks like that."

Ham only scowled through the mud on his face.

The raft consisted of a pair of long logs, crumbling with rot, secured in catamaran form with crosspieces and flexible v]ines.

Doc eyed the sticks which had served as oars. They were highly inefficient.

"Put it in the water!" he directed. Then he vanished into the jungle.

The raft was hardly in the sea before Doc came back. He was carrying an armload of planks ripped from the house. These were much more suitable as paddles.

"What about the prisoners we left in the shack?" Renny demanded.

"They were still there." Doc exhibited one of the finger-tip thimbles containing the drug-laden needles — thimbles which produced long-lasting unconsciousness. "They'll be there quite a while, too."

They shoved off, taking positions on the shaky raft like a trained rowing crew. In a moment the paddles were dipping with machinelike regularity, shoving the crude craft forward at a fair clip.

Their eyes now sought the sampan bearing Torn Too. Doc had expected Tom Too to head for the pirate encampment on the south end of the island. But the sampan was skipping for the northern extremity, where the plane ]lay.

"We're in luck!" Doc said softly. "Tom Too doesn't know the temper of his cutthroats. He could dominate them easily and send the whole horde out to finish us. But he's afraid to go near them."

"Yeah, but he's headin' for our plane!" Monk grunted. "And there's bombs aboard it."

"Oh, no, there's not!" Ham clipped. "I stayed behind a little while last night after we heard the birds falling off their roosts and knew there was a gas cloud coming, long enough to chuck the bombs overboard."

The sampan swerved around the north end of Shark Head Island, entered the little bay, and was lost to sight.

Johnny spat a couple of words that would have shocked the natural science class he used to teach, and chopped at a cruising shark with his paddle. After that every one was careful that his feet did not drag in the water.

"Wilt they jump out of the water and grab a man?" Monk asked doubtfully.

"Probably not," said Johnny.

They kept their eyes on the little bay at the north end of Shark Head Island. The rattle of the outboard motor, made wispy by distance, had stopped.

Suddenly a shower of what looked like sparks shot into the air around the bay. The sparks were gaudily colored tropical birds. A moment later the froggy moan of plane motors wafted over the sea. It was their starting which had flushed up the birds.

"Why didn't you think to take something off the motors so they wouldn't run, wiseheimer?" Monk asked Ham.

Ham glared through his mud, said nothing. He did not dare dip up water to wash his face, due to the sharks.

Soon the plane skidded up into the sunlight. It wobbled, pitched, in the bumpy air. It flew like a duck carrying a load of buckshot.

"He's a rotten flyer!" Johnny declared.

"A kiwi!" Monk agreed.

The plane headed directly for the laboring raft.

Monk reached up and clawed his hair down over his eyes to keep the sun out. "I don't like this! That bird is going to crawl up. He may be the world's worst flyer, but I don't like it!"

RENNY followed Monk's example in getting his hair down on his forehead to shade his eyes from the sun. It was the next best thing to colored goggles. They'd have to look up to fight the plane. And gazing into the tropical sky was like looking into a white-hot bowl.

"We left machine guns on the plane!" he muttered. "It's gonna be tough on us?"

Johnny poked another shark in its blunt, tooth-pegged snout.

Doc Savage seemed unworried. He sat well forward, driving his paddle with a force that made the stout wood grunt and bend. So that his mighty strokes would not throw the raft off course, he distributed them on either side with scarcely an interruption in their machinelike precision.

Renny shucked out his pistollike machine gun and rapped a fresh cartridge clip in place.

"You won't need it," Doc told him.

"No?" Renny was surprised.

"Watch the plane!"

The amphibian came howling toward them. Tom Too was Dot trying for altitude; he wanted to be low enough to use his machine gun with effect — for no doubt he had found the rapid firers in the plane. His altitude was no more than five hundred feet.

"It's about time it happened!" Doc said grimly.

Doc's prediction was accurate.

Both motors of the amphibian suddenly stopped.

Tom Too acted swiftly. He kicked the plane around and headed it back for Shark Head Island. His banking about was sloppy; the ship side-slipped as though the air were greased.

"He can just fly, and that's all!" Monk grinned. "What stopped the motors, Doc?"

"I plugged the fuel lines close to the tanks," Doc replied. "The carburetor and fuel pipes held enough gas to take the craft upstairs, but no more."

The big bronze man neglected to add that it would have been simpler to cut off the fuel at the carburetors, but that this would not have left enough gas available to get the plane off should circumstances have sent them to the craft in such a hurry that they would not have had time to unplug the fuel lines.

Tom Too was gliding the dead-motored plane at a very flat angle, getting the maximum distance out of his altitude. Probably this was by accident rather than flying ability.

"Holy cow!" groaned Renny. "Is he gonna get back to Shark Head?"

"He will come down about a hundred yards offshore," said Doc after a glance of expert appraisal.

The estimate was close. With a sudsy splash, the amphibian plunked into the sea. It pushed ahead for a time under its own weight. It stopped a bit less than three hundred feet offshore.

Then the ship began to move backward — blown by the offshore breeze.

"He'll be blown right into our hands!" Ham ejaculated.

"Or he'll find the plugged fuel lines!" Monk pointed out.

TOM Too wasted no time hunting for what had silenced the motors, however. Probably he was no mechanic. He appeared atop the amphibian cabin.

He was too distant for much to be told about his appearance. Even Doc's sharp vision could not distinguish the fellow's features.

One thing they did note — Tom Too carried a large brief case.

The pirate leader reached up and struck savagely at the plane wing. There was a knife in his fist.

"Hey!" squawled Monk. "He's lettin' the gas out of the tanks!"

It was worse than that. Tom Too backed up, struck a match, and flung the flame into the petrol drooling from the punctured tanks.

Flame gushed. It wrapped the amphibian until the craft was like a toy done in red tissue paper. Yellow smoke tossed away downwind, convulsing and boiling in the breeze.

Tom Too sprang into the sea. He swam madly for the shore of Shark Head Island.

Johnny gazed at the sharks cruising about the makeshift raft, then at the distant splashes that marked Tom Too's progress.

"That guy has got nerve!" grunted Johnny.

"Fooey!" said Monk. "A rat will fight a lion if he's cornered."

Doc Savage was standing up, still paddling, the better to watch Tom Too's progress.

Renny also watched. His eyes were second in sharpness to Doc's.

"There goes a shark for him!" Renny bawled suddenly.

They all saw the triangle of lead-hued shark fin cutting toward Tom Too.