Presently he heard the sound of oars; not good lusty strokes, but cautious, half-hearted pulls. The dip of the blades was just audible above the noise of the wind, but the usual sound of creaking of tholes or rowlocks was absent. Whoever it was rowing at this time of the night, they were up to no good, thought Jack, because the oars were muffled.
"Perhaps it's some beachcombers coming to sneak some of the yacht's gear," he muttered. "I'll rouse Harry." But ere he could make up his mind to do so the sound of the dipping blades grew fainter and fainter. No doubt the yacht, showing no light, had been unnoticed in the darkness.
"I'm hanged if I can stand this any longer," exclaimed the sleepless youth. "I'll turn out and have a look round."
Fumbling in the darkness he found an oilskin coat with a sou'wester stuffed into one of the pockets. After a tough struggle with the refractory coat, which had stuck together in many places, Jack managed to scramble into the obstinate yet serviceable garment. Well it was that he did so, for on gaining the well he found that a light driving rain was falling.
"Might just as well stick it," he continued, and sheltering behind the after bulkhead of the cabin he looked into the darkness. He tried to locate the powder-hulk. Her approximate position he knew, but there was no visible sign of the storehouse of potential energy.
A thousand tons of cordite. The words seemed to revolve in his mind with persistent frequency. One pound of cordite, under pressure, would blow a man to smithereens; there are 2,240 pounds in a ton; in a thousand tons——
"Whatever is the matter with my nerves to-night?" he exclaimed. "They seem all on edge. To-morrow I'll——"
Suddenly a lurid red flash, quickly followed by a second, pierced the darkness. A brief instant later and two muffled reports, just audible above the now strong gale reached his ears. They were revolver shots, and they came from the powder-hulk.