Curiousity had overcome Mrs. Armstrong’s fright. She was kneeling in the bow staring at the yacht, her pink parasol clutched in her hands, and tragic though the situation was, I could not help smiling, involuntarily
And then for the first time I remembered Mrs. Armstrong. She was cowering down with her hands over her ears—the picture of abject terror. But now curiosity overcame her fright, and she knelt there, staring at the yacht. Her pink parasol was clutched in her hands; and tragic though the situation was, I could not help smiling involuntarily. Anyway, she would have something to talk about when she got home.
A mocking shout from the yacht made me look away again. The scoundrel who called himself the Reverend Samuel Longfellow was standing beside the boxes of gold and pearls which had been stacked on the deck. He was waving his hand and bowing ironically, with the six other blackguards beside him, when the last amazing development took place.
Before our eyes there burst a great sheet of flame. I had a momentary glimpse of the craft splitting in two
Literally before our eyes they vanished in a great sheet of flame. I had a momentary glimpse of the yacht apparently splitting in two, and then the roar of a gigantic explosion nearly deafened me.
“Get under cover!” yelled the skipper, and there was a general stampede, as bits of metal and wood began falling into the sea all around us. Then there came another smaller explosion as the sea rushed into the yacht’s engine room, a great column of water shot up, and when it subsided the yacht had disappeared.
“What in heaven’s name happened?” said one of the Americans dazedly. “What made her blow up like that?”
I said nothing; I felt too dazed myself. And unconsciously I looked toward the bow: Mrs. Armstrong had disappeared.