Dick explained in a low voice what had happened, sitting on the locker and almost overcome by the narrow escape of the boat and her living cargo.
Speake began to shake; Clackett rubbed a dazed hand across his eyes; and Ysabel, dropping on one of the low seats, buried her face in her hands.
“Bob!” she gasped, looking up; “how can he stay up there in the conning tower after such a hairbreadth escape as that?”
“Bob?” returned Dick. “Why, he’s as calm as a day in June. He’s not even ruffled. He——”
“Listen!” called Clackett. “Bob’s saying something.”
“Speake!” came the voice from the conning tower.
“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Speake.
“Get to work on your electric stove, providing it wasn’t smashed by that somersault we turned, and see if we can’t have a piping-hot meal. Ysabel will help you.”
“That’s what he’s thinking of,” muttered Dick, “something to eat. Well, Bob Steele has got more nerve than I have.”
While Speake and Ysabel were getting supper ready, Dick and Clackett went into the prison room and looked at the men confined there.