‘None, I promised you so,’ said Mr. Macrae; ‘I am a man of my word. Come on deck if you doubt me and look for yourself.’
‘Not me, and get shot by a rifleman,’ said the voice.
‘It is very distressing to be distrusted in this manner,’ replied Mr. Macrae. ‘Captain McClosky,’ he said to the skipper, ‘pray request all hands to oblige me by going below.’
The captain issued this order, which the yacht’s crew rather reluctantly obeyed. Their interest and curiosity were strongly excited by a scene without precedent in the experience of the oldest mariner.
When they had disappeared Mr. Macrae again addressed the invisible owner of the voice. ‘All my crew are below. Nobody is on deck but Captain McClosky, the Earl of Bude, and myself. We are entirely unarmed. You can see for yourself.’ [{406}]
The owner of the voice replied: ‘You have no torpedoes?’
‘We have only the armament agreed upon by you to protect this immense mass of bullion from the attacks of the unscrupulous,’ said Mr. Macrae. ‘I take heaven to witness that I am honourably observing
every article of our agreement, as per yours of August 21.’
‘All right,’ answered the voice. ‘I dare say you are honest. But I may as well tell you this, that while passing under your yacht we attached two slabs of gun-cotton to her keel. The knob connected with them is under my hand. We placed them where they are, not necessarily for publication—explosion, I mean—but merely as a guarantee of good faith. You understand?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘though I regard your proceeding as a fresh and unmerited insult.’