Calling two of his seamen below Dave produced a tape measure.
"Get the distance from the hatchway to the after end of this hold," he directed.
Then, wheeling, he noted that the mate's face had turned to a greenish color.
"What ails you, man?" Darrin demanded, eyeing the fellow sharply.
"N-n-nutten, sir," stammered the mate.
One of the seamen reported the measurement he had taken.
"Now, go on deck and measure aft from the hatchway," Dave commanded.
The instant that Darrin was left alone with the mate a pair of muscular arms encircled the throat of the young American naval commander from behind. In the same instant the mate sprang at him. The two assailants, taking him so by surprise, overcame Darrin with comparative ease. In the same moment they backed him through a small doorway opening into the hold forward.
Down on his back Dave Darrin was thrown, the skipper sitting on his chest, while the mate swiftly drew the door to and securely bolted it. In this stuffy apartment, lighted only by two swinging lanterns, Darrin realized that he must fight promptly if he expected to escape.
A steel tube was pressed against one of Dave's temples, while a hoarse, low voice proclaimed: