Gates grinned and, cupping his hands, shouted:
"Orchid, ahoy! This yacht's chartered by the U. S. Secret Service, and you're ordered to come about! Delay one minute and we blow you out of the water!"
"Accomplished old liar," Tommy chuckled. "See anything?"
Gates, so earnest was he in this rôle of Uncle Sam, had his watch out, marking off the seconds. When the sixtieth had ticked he called again, in a more ferocious tone:
"Time's up, but I'll give you harf a minute longer! This is the larst word!"
"Now," said Tommy, having waited the thirty seconds which brought no response, "let's see you make good! Will you fire a torpedo, or one of the fifteen-inch guns?"
But Gates was seeing no humor in the situation; neither was I; neither was Tommy, if the truth were known. Our position was in a sense desperate. We had bluffed and the bluff had been called. Five minutes ago we might have turned back, but such a course now would make us laughing-stocks even to ourselves. And there was Sylvia. What sort of a quitter would she think me!
I saw that someone had to board that yacht, even though such a course, almost to a certainty, meant a test of the professor's surgical skill—a skill we knew he possessed along with his other attainments. But I could not—I simply would not—risk any of our fellows on an undertaking so hazardous. Conscious, however, of Tommy's utter pig-headedness I saw the futility of merely asking him to stay behind; so my mind became instantly made up and, turning to Gates, I sharply asked:
"Who commands here?"
"Why, I'm the captain, sir," he answered, surprised at my tone.