Little wonder, for as the flames crept upward to the rigging, writhing inward and outward to the arms, it was a grand, if terrible sight. And there was pathos in it, too; for the ship on fire was one of the great wooden ships in the Navy of the past. Its day of action—of fighting—had long since passed. So, moored in midstream, it had been used as a storeship.
The signal-lights "Ship on Fire" flashed along the river, and a picket-boat from a flagship, with other boats, approached as near as they could to the burning ship. Was there anybody on board? It seemed not—so far, at least, as could be seen.
But suddenly a cry of horror went up from the crowd. A man had suddenly made his appearance on the deck. He rushed about like a hunted fox, trying to elude its pursuers; then, finding it impossible, flung himself, with a strange cry that long haunted Paul's ears, into the river.
Paul knew that the man was Zuker. The picket-boat tried to reach him, but could not. The fire had enveloped the sides of the old ship, and shot out tongues of flame from every porthole. For the space of a minute Zuker's figure was seen silhouetted in flame against the darkness. Then the waters closed over him, and he was seen no more.
"That—that was Zuker. I'm sure of it," Paul whispered to Harry, when he could speak.
"I thought it looked like him, too," said Harry, in an awestruck whisper. "What could he be doing on that ship?"
"Up to no good, I'm afraid; but good or ill, his work is ended now."
Zuker had at last come to his death by the element from which Paul's father had saved him so long ago.
"Yes; I don't think he'll trouble anybody again," answered Harry, as he slipped his arm, with a shudder, through Paul's.
The flames from the middle of the ship were now leaping fifty feet into the air. The river manuals played upon it, but made little or no impression. It seemed to hiss back contempt and defiance as the water fell.