There was no use finishing his opinion of Dowd’s uselessness. The motor boat shot alongside under increased speed. There was a slanting bump, a grappling iron flew over the rail and caught, and the next moment a man swarmed up the rope, threw his leg over the rail, and then his head and face appeared.
Ruth in her excitement pressed the switch of her electric torch. The ray of light shot almost directly into the eyes of the first boarder. He was the flaxen-haired man—the man she believed she had seen hiding in the small motor boat before the explosion in the steamer’s fire room.
CHAPTER XVIII—THE CONSPIRACY LAID BARE
It was too late then for Mr. Dowd to correct his mistake. In the dark he had gone to the wrong closet in the captain’s chart room. There were loaded small arms of several kinds in one closet, while in the other were stored spare arms that were not oiled and loaded and ready for use.
The flaxen-haired man swarmed over the rail. He had a pistol in his hand. A moment later another man came up the ladder that had been put over the rail when the captain’s launch was manned for departure. This second man bore a powerful electric lamp.
“Drop that torch and your guns!” he commanded sharply. “Put up your hands!”
“It’s Dykman!” muttered Mr. Dowd. “The cut-throat villain!”
But he obeyed the command. So did Rollife. And could Ruth Fielding do otherwise? They stood in line with their hands in the air, palms outward. Dykman crossed the deck with his lamp warily, while the flaxen-haired man held the three under the muzzle of his pistol.
“What do you mean by such actions, Dykman?” demanded Dowd angrily.
“I’ll let you guess that, old man,” said the other. “But I advise you to do your guessing to yourself. We are in no mood to listen to you.”