He produced a navy revolver from his pocket. It was the only serviceable weapon of the expedition, barring the cutlasses; they knew it, and they knew him, and they followed like lambs as he walked toward the house on whose veranda Sprengel had reappeared.
Ten yards away he ordered the others to halt, and advanced alone, putting the revolver back in his pocket.
Sprengel was in pajamas, and he had been perspiring with the heat; he was also in a bad temper and a bit frightened, all of which conditions did not add to the beauty of his appearance.
“Mr. Sprengel, I believe,” said the Captain, opening the business.
“That is my name,” replied the other. “And who are you, may I ask, and what is your ship doing here and these men?”
“We will go into the house and talk,” said the Captain, “if you will kindly lead the way. I am the Captain of a British auxiliary cruiser come to have a few words with you.”
He followed on the heels of Sprengel, who evidently had not recognised him in the least, into a large, airy room floored with native matting and furnished with American rockers, a bamboo couch, a table, and island headdresses and spears for wall decorations.
“You did not recognise me outside,” said the Captain. “Perhaps because I had my hat on. Do you not recognise me now?”
“Not from Adam,” replied Sprengel in a violent tone. “I only know that you have landed on my beach with armed men and that you had but till just now a pistol in your hand. Also, I recognise that your ship has a gun trained on my house. Are you aware that this is a German island?”
“That’s just the point, my dear man,” said the Captain, taking a seat unasked. “Are you aware that England is at war with Germany?”