"Double!" shouted the Sub.
The planks trembled under the rush of many feet as the men raced down the pier. The sentry was running for dear life, yelling at the top of his voice, to the accompaniment of a rousing British cheer which was quickly taken up by the prisoners within the tower.
Releasing the safety catches of their rifles, all but two of the submarine's men threw themselves on the ground in anticipation of an attack from the troops in the barracks. The two, headed by Farnworth, made their way to the door of the tower.
"Stand clear, there!" said the midshipman in a loud voice, as a warning to any of the prisoners who might be on the other side of the door; then holding the muzzle of his revolver a few inches from the lock, he fired twice in quick succession.
The stout oaken door and its antiquated iron lock were not proof against the heavy Webley bullets, and with a crash the woodwork gave way. Farnworth pushed aside the remains of the door and entered. Within was a square room, absolutely deserted.
"Where are you, men?" he shouted.
"Up here, sir," replied someone; then another voice exclaimed: "Lumme, Bill! if 'tain't Mister Farnworth."
The midshipman had been sent to rescue his own boat's party—the survivors of the ill-starred whaler that had been cast ashore in Yenikeui Bay.
Farnworth looked up. He imagined that he saw an opening in the vaulted ceiling, but there were no signs of a ladder.
"Can't you men get down?" he asked.