The interior of the cabin was full of yellow vapour. He could discern the Mexican. Durango had his face jammed up against the open scuttle.
"Tarnation thunder!" ejaculated Captain Gotham. "I fair forgot that scuttle. Keep the pot bilen', boss."
With this injunction the master of the "Quickstep" made his way to the poop deck and peered over the rail. He could see the tip of Durango's nose projecting beyond the rim of the scuttle, while clouds of sulphur fumes wafted past the Mexican's head and eddied along the ship's side.
"Lower that fender—look alive, there!" ordered Captain Gotham.
Two men dragging a huge globular rope fender lowered it over the side and adjusted it so that it blocked the Mexican's sole means of obtaining fresh air. He immediately pushed the obstruction aside with his knife.
The Yankee skipper was not to be baulked. A long handspike was procured; one end was wedged between the lower part of a convenient davit and the vessel's side; a tackle was clapped on to the other end and bowsed taut, thus jamming the fender hard against the scuttle.
The end was now in sight. Durango was gasping for breath.
"Will you surrender?" demanded Captain Whittinghame.
There was no answer.
The attacking party waited a few moments longer. There was a dull thud upon the cabin floor. Still suspecting that this was a ruse on the part of the trapped man they waited another minute, then the door was burst open.