“Steady on, Lockyer!” whispered Parry, placing his arms about the inventor. “We’ll be alongside in a minute, old man.”
“Heaven grant we may not be too late,” breathed the inventor. In the darkness of the conning-tower he shook like a leaf. But his gaze never left the intense scene on the after deck of the yacht. Its details shone up in the searchlight’s radiance as if it had been a picture on a lighted stage.
“Give them a hail, Parry,” ordered Captain McGill, as the submarine crept in alongside the moving yacht.
“Ahoy, on the yacht!” came the lieutenant’s voice; “heave to immediately.”
“You go to blazes!” shouted a bloated-faced fellow, leaning over the rail, and shaking his fist menacingly.
“Yes, get out if you know what’s good for you buttinskis,” roared another man, joining the first.
“This is a fair warning, men,” exclaimed Lieutenant Parry. “This vessel is a naval craft. If—”
“Oh, come off! That’s no naval craft. Where’s your pretty uniform?” jeered the mutineers. Then, from the bloated-faced man came a sharp order.
“If those fellows try to board us, fill them full of lead.”