“That rocket was a distress signal, sure enough,” rejoined Mr. Parry; “hand me those glasses, will you, Stark?”
Holding the wheel with one hand, the middy did as he was requested. Then his scrutiny returned to the lights of the distant vessel. As he gazed, another rocket soared up and spattered yellowy on the night—like an egg shattered against a blackboard.
“She’s a big, white yacht, as nearly as I can make out,” said the lieutenant, after he had centered the glasses on the distant craft.
“Shall I head for her, sir?”
“By all means. Keep her on that course while I go below and consult Captain McGill.”
The officer soon appeared in the conning-tower, with the other naval dignitaries. Captain McGill now took his turn at scrutinizing the yacht through the night glasses.
He set them down with an exclamation. The submarine was not more than a few hundred yards from the yacht now.
“Mutiny on board, by Jove!” exclaimed the officer.
“Mutiny, sir?”
“Aye, aye, Parry! We must lay alongside. I can see an old gentleman and a girl on the stern deck. They seem to have been driven there, for the crew are lined up at the break in the deck, and appear to be threatening them.”