Two slight jars were now just felt by the owner, skipper, and crew of the Flora Macdonald. ‘What’s that?’ asked Mr. Macrae sharply. ‘A reef?’
‘In my opinion,’ said the captain, ‘the beggars in the submarine have torpedoed us. Attached torpedoes to our keel, sir,’ he explained, respectfully touching his cap and shifting the quid in his cheek. He was a bluff tar of the good old school.
‘Merciful heavens!’ exclaimed Mr. Macrae, his face paling. ‘What can this new outrage mean? Here on our deck is the gold; if they explode their torpedoes the bullion sinks to join the exhaustless treasures of the main!’
‘A bit of bluff and blackmail on their part I fancy,’ said Bude, lighting a cigarette.
‘No doubt! No doubt!’ said Mr. Macrae, rather unsteadily. ‘They would never be such fools as to blow up the millions. Still, an accident might have awful results.’
‘Look there, sir, if you please,’ said the captain of the Flora Macdonald, ‘there’s that spar of theirs up again.’
It was so. The spar, the periscope, shot up on the larboard side of the yacht. After it had reconnoitred, the mirror of ocean was stirred into dazzling circling waves, and the deck of a submarine slowly emerged. The deck was long and flat, and of a much larger area than submarines in general have. It would seem to indicate the presence below the water of a body or hull of noble proportions. A voice hailed the yacht from the submarine, though no speaker was visible.
‘You have no consort?’ the voice yelled.
‘For ten years I have been a widower,’ replied Mr. Macrae, his voice trembling with emotion.
‘Most sorry to have unintentionally awakened unavailing regrets,’ came the voice. ‘But I mean, honour bright, you have no attendant armed vessel?’