“That tears it, I reckon. Good plan that—using the boats. I wondered how you were going to load all that stuff in the Flying Fish.”
“I hated to do it,” admitted his friend, “but now that the Orleans is practically without provisions, she will have to return to New York, and she can make port in less than twenty-four hours. With this fine weather, there’s little or no danger of the passengers needing the boats.”
“What are we to do now?” asked Osceola.
“Report to Herr Baron, I reckon.”
Bill hailed one of the submarine’s petty officers who was herding the crew back to their quarters.
“Do you know where we’ll find Baron von Hiemskirk?”
“He is in the main dining salon, sir.”
“Come along, Osceola,” said Bill. “He must be pretty nearly finished with his own particular job. I hope so, anyway. If that cruiser shows up and we’re caught—well, it will take a lot of explaining to justify our part in this. The chances are, I’d be handed my discharge from the Navy, if nothing worse.”
Osceola nodded gloomily and the two made their way along an almost empty deck to the main companionway.
“I wonder where the passengers have disappeared to,” mused the young Seminole, as they descended the broad staircase.