“That’s easy to guess, Dick,” returned Bob, lifting his head. “The boat I saw hull down, off on the port side of us, must have been Fingal’s schooner, the North Star. The schooner was expecting the don along with the Grampus, and was laying to get that crew of rascals aboard of us. Dropping the yawl in the water, the schooner left the boat behind. Oh, I see it all now. But I can’t understand this Don Ramon Ortega. This business will open the eyes of a good many people in Belize.”
“But what’s the upshot of it all? What’s the don tryin’ to do?” This from Speake, as he continued to nurse his injury.
“I can see through him, all right enough,” said Dick. “He’s playing even with us for what we did on the Izaral River, a few days ago.”
“He has captured the Grampus,” added Bob, “and probably intends to turn her over to General Pitou.”
“An’ there wasn’t anythin’ in that story of the don’s?” asked Speake. “It was a pretty good story, an’ sounded to me like it might be straight goods.”
“The don is helping Fingal,” returned Bob, “and the submarine is now in the hands of the five we ‘rescued’ from the yawl, and the don. There are six of our enemies and only five of us. Naturally, we don’t count, being locked up in this steel room; and Gaines and Clackett can’t count for much, either, with revolvers staring them in the face whichever way they turn. This is a hard row of stumps for us, pards!”
“An’ all owin’ to Clackett, an’ Gaines, an’ me!” mourned Speake.
“There’s nothing to be gained thinking over that part of it, Speake,” said Bob. “We’ve got to look this thing squarely in the face and do what we can to recapture the submarine.”
“Nothin’ we can do!” grunted Speake. “That outfit of roughs have got the whip hand of us, and they’re going to keep it. They was wise to keep Gaines an’ Clackett to attend to the runnin’ of the machinery, an’ I guess the don can do the steerin’, easy enough.”