Duval’s knees quivered under him. He trembled like a man with the palsy. Old Daniels came up to him hastily.
“Duval, they’ve sighted one of them airyoplanes—you don’t think——”
“No, I don’t think. I know,” choked out Duval, “they are after us. Hark!”
From the distance came the sound of shots high up in the air. In reply to the signal—for such it was—the Buenos Aires’ whistle emitted three long, mournful toots. Her engines began to slow down. As Duval felt the steamer’s speed check he dashed below to his cabin. As for Daniels, he stood rooted to the spot, his lips moving, but no speech coming from them. Zeb was nowhere to be seen.
Up on the Buenos Aires’ lofty flying bridge her officers, in the meantime, had been almost equally excited. They had seen the aëroplane some time before; but as nowadays such craft are a fairly common sight, they had not paid overmuch attention to it. It was not till the unusual size of the craft was revealed that they scrutinized it closely.
Then, as the big winged man-bird swung above the steamer’s masts, had come the quick six pistol shots. An imperative signal, rightly interpreted “Stop!”
The whistle had replied and the vessel’s way been checked as the jangling signals sounded in the engine-room, and “Slow down” flashed up on the telegraph.
“What do you want?” hailed the captain through a megaphone, as the Sea Eagle—for of course our readers have guessed the identity of the craft of the air—swung above him.
“We want to board you with a United States warrant!” came the startling reply from midair.
“A warrant! For some of my passengers?”