“They may begin shooting any moment,” chattered the cowering fellow. “If they do, they can pick us all off easily. You’ll be the first one killed, too, for Bunol thirsts for your blood.”
Not another one of the group had sought shelter. Colonel Stringer, his gray mustache bristling, was standing erect with his shoulders squared toward the enemy, while John Coddington was planted near, his hands on his hips. Buckhart was close to the rail, his square jaw set, fire in his eyes. The professor, inspired by the others, had not betrayed any alarm, although Dick fancied he was ready to drop and seek shelter the instant any trouble began.
In the very forefront was Merriwell.
The enemy seemed in doubt, and while they hesitated the steamer bumped against the side of the yacht.
The moment the two boats touched Dick and Brad were on the jump. The searchlight no longer bore on them. They leaped to the rail and went over it. From the steamer they sprang to the deck of the yacht.
Colonel Stringer followed, only he was somewhat more cautious. He was a moment ahead of Coddington.
Dick had a pistol in his hand when his feet struck the deck of the yacht. Buckhart also had drawn a weapon.
They found themselves confronted by two men, both of whom seemed unarmed.
“Is this the way peaceable persons behave?” asked a cuttingly sarcastic voice. “You have boarded my yacht in defiance of my wishes, and, if my eyes do not deceive me in this light, you have weapons in your hands.”
“We shall not use our weapons unless you force us to use them,” said Dick. “Have no fear of that.”