The huge lump of a man in the stern of the launch stopped sculling when he was within easy calling distance of the shore, and the boat lost way.
"Ahoy ze island!" he hailed, in a voice ridiculously out of proportion to his barrel-girthed bigness.
"Get to work with that oar and come ashore!" was Van Dyck's brusque command, to which he added: "We've got you covered."
"Non, non! it ees ze flag of ze truce!" shrilled the voice. And then the fat cook handed out an argument that was much more binding: "Ve haf ze enchineers in ze hold shut up, and eef you shoot wiz ze gon, zey will be keel!"
"Talk it out, then," said Van Dyck. "What do you want?"
"Ve make ze proposal—w'at you call ze proposition. It ees zat you vill all go to ze ozzer end of zis island, immédiatement. W'en you do zat, ve leave you ze long-boat to go 'way, w'erever you like to go. W'at you do wiz Lequat and hees mens?"
"Lequat and his men are where you won't find them in a hurry," was Bonteck's answer. "As to your demand that we go away and let you steal the yacht again, there's nothing doing."
"Sacré bleu! It ees ze—w'at you call heem?—ze ooltimatum. W'en ees come daylight, ve put ze leetle cannon on ze long boat and keel all—oui!"
At this savage pronouncement we held a whispered consultation, the fat pirate sitting back in the stern sheets of the launch and calmly lighting a cigarette. Could we, dare we, take the risk of a daylight bombardment, even though the single piece of artillery were only the yacht's little brass muzzle-loading signal piece, with such iron scraps as the mutineers might be able to find or manufacture for the missiles? It was a dubious question. Though our island was nearly if not quite a mile in length, its greatest width did not exceed four or five hundred yards, and the little gun would easily put it under a cross-fire from either side.