“The Herr Baron is sure to raise an awful stink when he finds that lad on the locker!”
“We should fret over that. We’ll both be sleeping the sleep of the just long before that time!”
“Well, I vote we get out of here and right now. This ain’t a healthy place for either you or me. And say, I’m dead enough to go to sleep under an ice-cold shower!”
“Wait a minute. We don’t want to leave any clues. Grab that paper I was writing on, will you?”
As he talked. Bill was busily engaged in undoing nuts and screws which he stuffed in his pockets, snapping wires and playing general havoc with the radio apparatus.
“Smash that line of glass jars on the shelf with your wrench,” he added, bringing his own down on the sending key with a crash. “There isn’t going to be any radio business aboard the Amtonia when our friends arrive, if I can help it!”
“What’s to stop the Flying Fish getting wise with their wireless?” inquired Osceola, who was systematically wrecking everything within reach.
“Oh, they haven’t much of a wireless outfit aboard the sub. This bunch of junk in here was the one that counted.”
“Bunch of junk is right—” Osceola stopped short.
He stood facing a small mirror that hung on the wall above the wet cells he had just destroyed. Reflected in the small oblong he saw the door to the deck open slowly—and Baron von Hiemskirk walked into the room.