“Wal, I guess we can’t tackle the hull crowd with only one shooter. See here: I’m going to skid down to the dock, an’ if I don’t get the drop on ’em before long, my name ain’t Si. K. Haverly!”
“But where do I come in?” asked the doctor.
“You stay right here,” replied Haverly, “until them greasers come out, then you can nip in an’ unfix our pards.”
“Couldn’t we rush ’em?” suggested Oswyn eagerly.
“If you want a couple of funerals knockin’ around,” returned the millionaire grimly. “No, my son, you take it from me, it’s best to play a waiting game.”
“Very well,” assented Oswyn, “get off down to the dock; I’ll wait here.”
At that the Yankee turned, and vanished into the darkness of the surrounding shrubbery.
For ten minutes Oswyn waited outside the window, then the four scoundrels filed out, the footman switching off the light ere he left.
“Good-night, gentlemen,” he called mockingly, as he closed the window behind him, and it was all Oswyn could do to restrain the hot rage which rose within him, prompting him to knock the rascal down as he passed. But he controlled himself by a strong effort, and the four plotters, striding over the lawn, passed down the drive towards the dock gates. These the footman opened with one of a bunch of keys, and the quartette passed through into the yard.
Around them, wrapped in darkness, lay the great workshops, wherein the various sections of the marvellous submarine had taken shape.