"Duck, Tom," ordered Mr. Ironsides, "those bullets can't pierce the metal."
Bang! bang! bang! bang! bang!
The weapon the sentry was using was an automatic. The bullets flew in a constant stream. Tom counted ten. He knew the type of weapon, and knew, too, that when his magazine was exhausted the sentry would have to refill it.
"Now, then," he cried to Mr. Ironsides. "Now is our chance to grab him."
The two darted forward across the deck, and, before the sentry could reload, they were upon him. Tom was in no mood to be merciful.
"Can you swim?" he demanded of the fellow, who gave in without a struggle.
"Y-y-y-y-yes!" responded the other, with chattering teeth.
"Then over you go!" cried Mr. Ironsides. One! Two! Three!
Overboard went that sentry with a resounding splash. The manner in which he struck out for the tug convinced Tom, rather to his relief, that the man was in no danger of drowning.
All this had occurred in such a short time that those below in the cabin had only arrived on deck in time to see the finale.