Just then, with a squawk of terror like an anguished hen, Mrs. Armstrong rose to her feet and with her pink parasol in one hand fled toward the bow
“Go below,” said one of them to Miss Armstrong. “Remain in your cabin. And you”—he turned to me—“go aft where the others are.”
“You infernal scoundrel!” I shouted. “What are you playing at?”
“Don’t argue, or I’ll blow out your brains,” he said quietly. “And get a move on.”
I found the two Americans and the colored gentleman standing in a bunch with a few of the deck hands, and every one seemed equally dazed. One of the so-called parsons stood near with a revolver in each hand, but it was really an unnecessary precaution; we were none of us in a position to do anything. And suddenly one of the Americans gripped my arm.
“Gee! Look at the two guns on that yacht.”
Sure enough, mounted fore and aft, and trained directly on us were two guns that looked to me to be of about three-inch calibre, and behind each of them stood two men.
“What’s the game anyway?” he went on excitedly, as two boats shot away from the yacht. For the first time I noticed that the engines had stopped and that we were lying motionless on the calm, oily sea. But my principal thoughts were centered on Jim. Where was he? What was he doing? Had these blackguards done away with him, or was he lying up somewhere—hidden away? And even if he was, what could he do? Those two guns had an unpleasant appearance.