"As far as you are concerned we are. Pass over your hose, and stop talking about it. All we want is a little oil."
"Will you give me a written receipt?"
"Of course. Name your bill. We'll toss it up on a drift bolt. Pass over the hose."
"All right. Hook on your own reducer and suck it full with your pump; then it will siphon down."
"Got reducers, Sampson?"
"Got several. Guess we can start the flow."
The two craft drew close together, a hose was flung from the tanker to the destroyer, and the four machinists worked for a while with wrenches and pump fittings until the connection was made; then they started the pump, filled the hose, and, disconnecting, dropped their end into the tanks.
The oil, by the force of gravity, flowed from one craft to the other until the gauges showed a full supply. Then a written receipt for one hundred and twenty-five tons of oil was signed by the leaders, tied to a piece of iron, and tossed aboard the tanker, and the two craft separated, the pirate heading south, as Denman could see by the telltale.
Denman, his wounded scalp easier, lay down in his berth and smoked while he thought out his plans. Obviously the men were pirates, fully committed; they would probably repeat the performance; and as obviously they would surely be caught in time. There was nothing that he could do, except to heal his wound and wait.
He could not even assist Miss Florrie, no matter what peril might menace her; then, as he remembered a bunch of duplicate keys given him when he joined as executive officer, he thought that perhaps he might. They were in his desk, and, rolling out, he secured them.