Stopping at what was obviously the officers' pantry and picking up a couple of small-sized loaves from a few that the pirates had considered beneath their notice, the Sub led the way to a narrow hatchway whence a steep iron ladder gave access to the steerage flats.
It was Broadmayne's intention to seek shelter in the triangular space traversed by the propeller shaft, but as he lifted the steel flap a waft of acrid-smelling smoke drifted up.
"No place for us," he exclaimed.
"Have the blighters started a fire?" asked Rollo.
"No. At least, I think not," replied the Sub; "they have probably been monkeying with the shaft. Hist!"
They listened. Footsteps sounded overhead. The stowaways' retreat was cut off.
The compartment was in semi-darkness. A very subdued light filtered through the still-open hatchway. The floor was either level with or just below the waterline, while the walls forming part of the "run-aft" of the ship were unpierced by scuttles.
Groping, Broadmayne discovered that at one side was a large tank. It was rectangular and not shaped to fit the wing-plates, consequently there was a fair space between it and the curved side sufficient for several people to squeeze into.
It was a freshwater tank. The Sub could make out a couple of pipes leading upwards—one for filling, the other communicating with a pump in the officers' pantry.
The trap-hatch fell with a loud clang. The Spaniard who had come aft had narrowly escaped falling through the aperture. Without troubling to look down he had merely slammed the metal plate into position.