The rasping sound ceased, and the operator appeared; then, with their eyes distended, the three ran forward.
"Any one else in that deck house?" called Forsythe.
"No," answered the sailing master. "What are you going to do?"
"Kelly," said Forsythe, "aim low, and send a shell into the house. Aim low, so as to smash the instruments."
Kelly's reply was inarticulate, but in a moment the gun barked, and the deck house disintegrated into a tangle of kindling from which oozed a cloud of smoke. Women screamed, and, forward and aft, the yacht's people crowded toward the ends of the craft.
"What in thunder are you trying to do?" roared the sailing master, shaking his fist. "Are you going to sink us?"
"Not unless necessary," replied Forsythe; "but we want grub—good grub, too—and water. We want water through your own hose, because ours is full of oil. Do you agree?"
There was a short confab between the owner and the sailing master, ending with the latter's calling out: "We'll give you water and grub, but don't shoot any more hardware at us. Come closer and throw a heaving line, and send your boat, if you like, for the grub. Our boats are all lashed down."
"That's reasonable," answered Forsythe. "Hawkes, Davis, Daniels, Billings—you fellows clear away that boat of ours, and stand by to go for the grub."
The two craft drew together, and for the rest it was like the other holdup. The hose was passed, and, while the tanks were filling, the boat passed back and forth, making three trips, heavily laden with barrels, packages, and boxes. Then, when Forsythe gave the word, the hose was drawn back, the boat hoisted and secured, and the two craft separated without another word of threat or protest.