“You d——n cur!” Tom’s voice rang out. “You d——n cur! Grab that thing again quick, or, by God, you won’t live to go to no jail!” His revolver emphasized the words.
Between the two terrors, Bill deferred to the nearer. Once more his hand closed on the tiller, and the sloop, recovering headway, swept onward.
“Straight for the steamer,” Tom ordered.
Bill laughed harshly. “A h——l of a lot of help she’ll be to us!” he cried. “You darned fool, don’t you see it’s the Sea Spume?”
“What?” Tom spun round. “So much the better!” he cried. “We won’t need to waste no time explaining. And she’ll save us even if we lose the gold. That’s the kind of soft-headed fool that man Caruth is.”
The yacht was very near now—so near Tom Wilkins could distinctly hear the sound of her engine-room bells signalling “stop.” The Russian boats were also near. Wilkins looked at them, then at the yacht, then thrust his pistols back into his belt.
“They won’t shoot,” he declared. “We’re too valuable to shoot. And I guess you’re right. We can’t whip a whole fleet, but we’ll spoil their game, all the same.” He paused and glanced at the yacht. “Run across her bows,” he ordered, “and float down alongside.”
Little margin was there, but the sloop took what there was and swept across just ahead of the yacht’s sharp prow.
As she scraped aft, screened for a moment from the sight of the Russians, Wilkins caught his brother’s arms, and hoisted the slighter man upward toward the yacht’s shrouds. “Grab hold! Quick!” he directed.
As Bill scrambled upward, the plainsman sprang upon the further gunwale of the sloop and leaned far outward. Borne down by his weight, the overloaded boat careened; a green wave curled in over her side; and quietly and soberly she went down beneath his feet.