"What ship is that?" shouted Drake through a megaphone, as the Frome slowed down at cable's length on the Independencia's starboard quarter.
"Brazilian cruiser Independencia, from Cherbourg for Bahia Blanca," was the reply.
"A bit out of your course, old man," muttered Drake. "Stand by, we are sending a boat."
"For why? We want no communication."
"Then you'll have to want. If you give us any trouble we'll blow you out of the water," and the lieutenant pointed significantly towards the foremost torpedo-tube, around which its crew were standing ready to launch home the deadly weapon.
It was mere bluff on Drake's part. He dared not, as he had said, let loose a torpedo, and the weapon was only a practice one, its war-head being stowed away below. But to Drake's satisfaction the captain of the pirate-cruiser agreed to receive the boat.
"That's good!" ejaculated Drake. "Now, Fielding, off you go. Round up their gold-braided gentry and lock them up in the chart-room. Take possession of the bridge, and make them follow in our wake. They are only milk and water pirates, after all."
"Am I to take away the whaler, sir?" asked Cardyke.
"Very good. But when Mr. Fielding has taken the necessary steps to secure control over the prize, you will return—you understand? Good—now look alive, or we'll have someone else's finger in the pie." And Drake gave a hasty, comprehensive glance astern, heaving a sigh of relief that the horizon was unobscured. Here was the Frome's chance, he meant to make good use of it.
The mid. was wearing his dirk—the practically useless emblem of authority—and in addition he buckled on a holster containing a Service revolver. Both boats' crews, armed with rifles and bayonets—for the old British cutlass that worked such doughty deeds in days gone by is now a thing of the past—tumbled into the little craft as they lay alongside.