They were helped overside by a man in trousers and a cotton undershirt. Upon closer inspection he proved to be a short and stubby individual with very black eyes and hair and a round face badly in need of a shave.
“An’ now what’s the matter?” he asked.
“Are you in command of this craft?”
“I am, young man. Sergeant Duffy’s the name. Now let’s have yer monikers—an’ all about it.”
“My name is Bolton, I live in New Canaan,” began Bill.
“What? Not the midshipman whose name was in all the papers fer capturin’ that pirate liner!”
“I guess,” said Bill, “I have to plead guilty to the charge.”
Sergeant Duffy shook him warmly by the hand. “I recognize ye now from the pictures,” he beamed. “I’m glad to meet ye, sor. It’s an honor, it is.... An’ the young man wid ye—he’ll be Charlie Evans, if I’m not mistaken? Where in the seven seas did ye locate the lad? His father had his kidnappin’ broadcasted t’night, but it said them fellies had got him away down east—Clayton, Maine, was the place.”
“Well, I found him locked up aboard that yacht, the one that’s showing lights over there.”
“The Katrina?”