Topham leaped on deck. As he did so the broad white sword of the searchlight flashed through the darkness, lighting up the rolling water and picking out the Windbird black against the night, scarce a cable length away. The blinding light showed her every detail—showed her masts and funnels and the white tracery of her rigging, silvered the edges of the black smoke that trailed away behind her, and showed, too, her half dozen rapid fire guns, with their crews manned and ready.
“Hail them. Say you’ll send a boat,” ordered Topham.
Quentin flung up his megaphone. “Windbird ahoy,” he bellowed. “Heave to. I’ll send a boat aboard you.”
As the words left his lips the Windbird’s searchlight flashed out and lighted up the bulk of the torpedo boat, long and low, far less formidable to all appearances than the yacht.
A man on the yacht’s bridge raised a megaphone. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“That’s Ouro Preto talking,” commented Topham, staring through his glasses.
“The United States Destroyer Watson. Heave to!” ordered Quentin.
“Go to hell!”
Topham’s face flushed. You cannot tell an officer of the United States Navy to go to hell without consequences. Fortunately the young fellow was not impulsive. “Easy, Mr. Quentin,” he cautioned. “Warn him once more.”
“For the last time, heave to, you damned pirate,” shouted Quentin. “Heave to! or I’ll fire into you.”