Beside Tom in the conning tower stood Obadiah Ironsides, the professor and Jeff Trulliber. Rosewater had been pressed into service as an oiler in the engine room, while old Sam made some trifling adjustments of the machinery.
The party had retired to the conning tower, as they would be less conspicuous there than on deck, and those on the tug would not take alarm. It had been agreed upon, likewise, that Mr. Ironsides was to carry on the preliminary questioning of Rangler, or whoever was on board the tug, as in that case, the rascals would not take alarm and conceal Jack and Sandy, in the event that they were on board.
Closer and closer ranged the tug, a great white "bone" creaming at her bow. As she got within hailing distance, Mr. Ironsides emerged from the conning tower and took up a position on the submarine's deck.
"Ahoy! On board the tug!" he shouted, placing his hands funnel-wise to his mouth.
"Ahoy, yourself!" came back a rough voice from the pilot-house of the tug. "What sort of a sea-going peanut roaster is that?"
"The submarine boat Huron. I wish to speak to you."
"Have to wait till some other time, then. We're busy now," was the rejoinder, and the window of the pilot-house, which had been raised while Rangler thrust out his head, was slammed down once more.
"Hold on, there!" cried Mr. Ironsides. "I must speak to you, I tell you. It may have serious consequences for you if you don't stop."
This speech was greeted with a derisive laugh from the tug. But presently it slackened speed and the submarine crept up to it.
"Well, what do you want?" asked Rangler harshly, leaning out of his pilot-house and looking down on the gray whaleback of the submarine.