"Bull's eye!" remarked Herc coolly, flicking a powder stain off his gloves.
"Stopped her, sir!" exclaimed Midshipman Fuller an instant later.
He was right. The last "hint" had been too strong to ignore. The stranger slackened speed and lay sullenly tossing on the sea.
"Mr. Fuller, sir, take the bridge," ordered Ned, as he and Herc hastened to board the little power launch that lay tossing alongside, held off from crashing against the steel sides of the Henry by the stalwart arms of its crew.
Tossing like an eggshell, hurled dizzily skyward and then plunged downward, the dory-shaped power boat rapidly skimmed the distance between the destroyer and the yacht. Ned had ordered "side-arms," and the crew of six was fully armed.
"Yacht, ahoy!" hailed Ned as they drew near and a uniformed figure appeared on the yacht's bridge. "What craft is that?"
"The Spendthrift of New London for New Orleans," came the reply. "What's the matter with you navy fellows?"
"You'll soon find out," said Ned grimly. "Lay alongside, men. Be prepared for a surprise."
An accommodation ladder had been lowered by order of the man on the bridge, a stout, bearded individual. Ned was just preparing to climb it, when there came a warning shout from Herc. The red-headed lad pulled his chum back just in time to dodge a heavy iron weight which some unseen hand had hurled from above.