“Yes. Stand by for signals,” snapped the officer, dropping the tube.
It was typical of the spirit of the Navy, that after the first shock of amazement at the utterly unexpected, not a man on board who wore the uniform betrayed any signs of excitement. The officers gave quick commands. The men obeyed them without a word. But the two bound Italians poured out a flood of lamentations and cries.
“Go below and shut those fellows up!” ordered Captain McGill sharply.
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded Herc, with alacrity, dropping below.
Going up to Guiseppi, the red-headed lad flourished his fist under his nose.
“Do you want this to collide with your yellow features?” he demanded.
“No, no, signor,” wailed the wretch; “but what has happened? Are we going to drown? Oh, Santa Maria! tell us, for the mercy of heaven!”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, except that if you don’t shut up you’ll get busted on the nose,” grunted Herc; “you’ll spend a few years in jail, anyhow, so I don’t see what it matters to you.”
His threats proved effectual, coupled with his fierce looks, and the panic-stricken cowards subsided into whimperings and whinings like the lamentations of whipped curs. This duty attended to, Herc sprang up the ladder again, alert for orders.
“It’s a derelict, sir,” Ned was saying, as the Dreadnought Boy regained the conning-tower. “I can make out her masts and the outline of her hull.”