As the don spoke he pulled a hand from the breast of his coat. The hand gripped a revolver.
“That’s your game, is it?” asked Bob, peering steadily into the snaky orbs of the Spaniard.
“We have come thus far on my mission,” returned the don, “and we are going the rest of the way.”
“Put up that gun!” said Gaines angrily. “If you try any shootin’, we’ll throw our hands in the air and put back to Belize.”
Speake and Clackett moved forward. Bob waved them aside.
“I’ll manage this,” said he. “Gaines, keep your eyes on the periscope. A fine fellow, this don of yours. You men ought to feel proud of the way you hooked up with him, and——”
Bob, while he was talking, had kept covert eyes on the don. At just that moment the Grampus gave a heavy roll. The don’s stool slid back against the steel wall and the point of the revolver was thrown, for the fraction of a second, toward the curving deck, overhead. This was Bob’s opportunity. Quick as a flash he hurled himself upon the Spaniard, bore him from the stool, and they rolled over and over upon the heaving floor.
The struggle lasted only a few moments, and when Bob withdrew from the don and got to his feet, he was holding the revolver.
“I’ll make you answer for this!” cried the don, in a furious temper.