“Did Fingal come down the ladder from the conning tower, mate?” asked Dick.
“I thought so,” was the reply, “from the noise he made.”
“Did he go back to the deck?”
“I didn’t wait to listen.”
“If we could git that gang separated,” said Speake, “we could lay ’em out one at a time—an’ I guess the revolvers wouldn’t cut much figure.”
“That would be fine, Speake,” returned Dick, “but Fingal and his gang are not doing the things we want ’em to.”
“If we’re to accomplish anything toward recapturing the submarine,” chimed in Bob, “we’ll have to do it before Don Carlos gets back. He may bring a gang of soldiers with him. Besides, don’t forget what’s to happen to us at nightfall in case we don’t agree to join the revolutionists.”
“I’m not pinin’ to have my name wiped off the articles,” said Speake, with a wry grimace. “For one, I’d rather take long chances tryin’ to run the rebels off the boat. It’s a heap more comfortin’ to get done up that way than by lettin’ Fingal an’ Pitou an’ this Don Carlos do what they please without never liftin’ a hand to help ourselves.”
“I can’t see anything comforting in that proposition, either way,” observed Dick. “All I hope is, just now, that Ysabel will be careful, and that Pedro will look after her. Everything depends on her.”
“She’s a brick!” murmured Bob admiringly.