"Runkle," Dave smiled, "we are fond of the Englishmen. Their commanding officer called for our best speed, and we're going to show it."
"Aye, aye, sir!" grinned Runkle. "When any foreigner asks for the best we have in speed, he's likely to see it, sir."
Already the "Hudson's" launch had drawn smartly ahead of the British craft, and the distance between them grew steadily, though the Englishman was doing his best to keep up in the race.
Under the yacht's stern dashed the launch, and brought up smartly under the starboard quarter, laying alongside.
"Hullo, there! Vat you call wrong?" demanded a voice in broken English from the yacht's rail.
"Naval party coming aboard, sir," Dave responded courteously. "Take a line!"
"I vill not!" came the defiant answer.
"All the same, then," Dave answered lightly. "Bow, there! Make fast with grapple. Stern, do the same!"
Two lines were thrown, each with a grappling hook on the end. These caught on the yacht's rail. Three or four sailormen, one after the other, climbed the grappling lines. Two rope ladders were swiftly rigged over the side, by the Americans on the yacht's deck. Dave Darrin was quickly on board, with twenty of his seamen and all his marines, by the time that the English launch rounded in alongside the port quarter.
"You? Vat you mean?" demanded a short, swarthy-faced man, evidently captain of the yacht, as he peered at Dave's party. "You are American sailors!"