The warning was promptly acted upon. The intercepted craft reversed engines, lost way and then came to a stop. The Stars and Stripes remained fluttering in the faint breeze.
Promptly Pengelly and his men pushed off to the prize, under cover of the Alerte's six-inch gun. Before the boat ran alongside the stranger, the latter's accommodation-ladder had been lowered.
Pistol in hand, Pengelly, followed by his men, swarmed up the swaying ladder. At the gangway, supported by several officers and crew stood a tall, hatchet-faced man in white drill uniform and with his peaked cap tilted well over his left eye.
"What in the name of tarnation thunder do you want?" he demanded. "Cocktails, lime-juice or milk? If you do, you won't get—so quit."
Pengelly realised that Cain had made a mistake. The vessel was not the Candide disguised, but the Bronx City, registered and owned in the United States. But having boarded her, Pengelly had no intention of returning ignominiously to the Alerte.
"No quitting this time, skipper," he replied firmly. "I'm not here to argue—this is my persuader."
He touched the barrel of his automatic with his left hand and then pointed to the Alerte, which was still closing the prize.
"Guess you'll swing for this," exclaimed the captain of the Bronx City.
"More ways than one of killing a cat," retorted Pengelly. "Now, you—officers and men—for'ard you go and keep quiet, or it'll be the worse for you."
Shepherded by half a dozen of the Alerte's armed boarding-party, the crew of the Yankee were made to go for'ard. Pengelly turned to the Old Man.