They waited for Monk to appear.

Monk was the fifth of Doc’s friends. He had a penthouse chemical laboratory and living quarters downtown, near Wall Street. He should have arrived by now.

They were remarkable men, these adventurers. A lesser man than Doc Savage could never have held their allegiance. But to Doc, they gave their absolute loyalty. For Doc was a greater engineer than Renny, a more learned archaeologist than Johnny, an electrical wizard exceeding even Long Tom, a more astute man of law than Ham, and he could teach Monk things about chemistry. Too, each of the five owed his life to Doc, thanks to some feat of the bronze man on the field of battle, or the magic of Doc’s surgery.

As time passed, they began to exchange uneasy glances.

"Now I wonder what has happened to that ugly ape, Monk?" Ham muttered.

Doc called Monk’s downtown penthouse place. Monk’s secretary — she was one of the prettiest secretaries in New York City — informed him that Monk had left some time ago.

Doc hung up.

"I’m afraid, brothers, that Kar has got his hands on Monk," he said slowly.

DOC was right.

Monk wasted little time after receiving Doc’s call. He shucked off his rubber work apron. He had a chest fully as thick as it was wide. He put on a coat especially tailored with extra long sleeves. Monk’s arms, thick as kegs, were six inches longer than his legs. Only five feet and a half in height, Monk weighed two hundred and sixty pounds.

His little eyes twinkled like stars in their pits of gristle as he gave his secretary a few orders about his correspondence. Monk knew he might be away six months — or only an hour.

An elevator hurried him down from his penthouse establishment. The elevator operator and the clerk at the cigar stand both grinned widely at the homely Monk. They admired and liked him.

Each carried a pocket piece presented by Monk. These were silver half dollars which Monk had folded in the middle with his huge, hairy, bare hands.

Monk purchased a can of smoking tobacco and a book of cigarette papers. He rolled his own. Then he left the building.

He headed for a near-by subway. The subways offer the quickest, most traffic free transportation in New York City.

A slender, sallow-skinned weasel of a man fell in behind Monk. The fellow was foppishly clad. He kept a hand in a coat pocket.

Monk’s forehead was so low as to be practically nonexistent. This characteristic is popularly supposed to denote stupidity. It didn’t in Monk. He was a highly intelligent man.

Monk’s sharp eyes noted the foppish man trailing him. He saw the weasel-like fellow’s reflection in a plate-glass window of a store.

Monk stopped sharply. His monster hand whipped back. It grasped the knot which the weasel man’s claw made in his coat pocket. Monk twisted. The weasel man’s coat tore half off. Skin was crushed from his hand. And Monk got the long-barreled revolver which the fellow had been holding in the pocket.

The foppish man staggered into a deserted entryway, propelled by a hirsute paw. Monk crowded against him and held him there.

Both Monk’s great hands gripped the revolver barrel. They exerted terrific force. Slowly, the barrel bent until it was like a hairpin.

Monk gave the weasel man back his gun.

"Now you can shoot!" he rumbled pleasantly. "Maybe the bullet will turn around and hit the guy it oughta hit!"

Monk was something of a practical jokester.

The weasel man threw down his useless weapon. He tried to escape. He was helpless in the clutch of this human gorilla.

"Guess I’ll take you along and let Doc Savage talk to you," Monk said amiably.

Monk hauled his prisoner out onto the walk.

"Hold it, you missin’ link!" snarled a coarse voice.

Monk started and stared at the curb.

A sedan had pulled up there. Four villainous looking men occupied it. They had automatic pistols and submachine guns pointed at Monk.

"Get in here!" rasped one of them.

MONK could do two things. He could put up a fight — and certainly get shot. Or he could enter the car.

He got in the sedan.

The instant Monk was seated in the machine, manacles were clicked upon his arms and legs. Not one pair — but three! His captors were prepared to cope with Monk’s vast strength.

Monk began to wish he had taken his chances in a fight.

The sedan wended through traffic. It passed a couple of cops. Monk kept silent. To shout an alarm would have meant the death of those policemen, as well as his own finish. Monk knew men. This was a crew of killers which had him.

The weasel man whose gun Monk had bent was in the car. He cursed the big prisoner and kicked him. Monk said nothing. He did not resist. But he marked the weasel man for a neck-wringing if the opportunity presented.

Rolling on a less used street, the sedan reached the water front. The district was one of rotting piers and disused warehouses on the East River.

The motor of an airplane could be heard out on the river.

The sedan halted. Monk was yanked out.

He saw the plane now. A seaplane, it was painted green.

The seaplane pilot tossed a line. His craft was hauled carefully to one of the old piers.

They dumped Monk in the plane cabin.

The pilot, Monk saw now, had a crimson-soaked bandage about his forehead, and another around his left arm. He was a squat fellow, much too fat. He had mean eyes.

Monk’s captors looked curiously at the pilot’s wounds.

"How’d you get plinked?" one asked.

The pilot vented a snarl of rage. He pointed at several bullet holes in the control compartment.

"Doc Savage!" he gritted. "The bronze devil popped up after I thought I’d finished him! He nearly got me!"

Monk grinned at this. He had iron nerves. If Doc Savage was after this gang, the villainous fellows were in for a brisk time indeed. Monk tested his strength against his manacles. They were too much for him.

"Take the big guy to — you know where!" directed one of the men who had occupied the car.

The pilot indicated a radio receiving set in the plane.

"Sure," he said. "I know where he’s goin’. Kar gimme my orders over the short-wave radio set."

He opened the throttle. With a moan from the exhaust pipes, the seaplane taxied about. It raced across the river surface and took the air.

MONK was prepared for an extensive air journey. He was fooled. The seaplane circled over Brooklyn, then across the harbor. It went nearly as far south as the Statue of Liberty. Banking north, it flew up the Hudson River.

The craft descended to the water near the beginning of Riverside Drive. It taxied slowly along the surface, close inshore.

Rearing up in the cabin, Monk was able to peer through the windows.

Near by and directly ahead stood a couple of rickety piers. To one of these was anchored a large, ancient three-masted sailing ship. The black, somber hull of this strange craft was pierced with cannon ports.

On top of the superstructure reared a big sign, reading:

THE JOLLY ROGER

Former Pirate Ship.

(Admission Fifty Cents)

It was the same craft upon which Doc Savage had cornered Squint and his companions. Monk, however, had no way of knowing this.

From the smokestack of the cookhouse, or galley, poured dense black smoke. This smudge was rapidly settling to the water about the old corsair craft.

Soon the vessel was completely hidden. The darksome pall spread to cover the river out a considerable distance from the ship.

Directly into this unusual smoke screen taxied the seaplane.

The floats of the craft were suddenly seized and held. Monk perceived several men had grasped the plane. These men were standing upon something. Monk craned his neck to see what it was.