The man came down off the forecastle head, crossed the main deck and disappeared in the galley. In about ten minutes Mr. Reardon saw him climb up the port companion to the bridge; a minute later he came down. Mr. Reardon waited until he was certain the fellow was sipping his coffee in the galley; then with the utmost nonchalance he went up on the bridge and hailed Mr. Schultz, who was standing amidships blowing on a cup of coffee.
“Begorra,” he complained, “Divil a wink can I shleep to-night. I've been sittin' wit' the wireless operator all evenin', an' now, thinks I, he's weary listenin' to me nonsinse, so I'll go up on the bridge an' interview Misther Schultz. If I—be the Rock av Cashel! What was that?”
“Vot? Vere?” Mr. Schultz exclaimed, and set down his cup of coffee. He was all excitement, for he had been looking for the flash of a searchlight for the past hour and he wondered now if the unsuspecting Reardon had seen it first.
“Over that way.” Mr. Reardon pointed off the port bow. “Did ye not see that light?”
“A light. Gott im Himmel!”
“Ye can't see it now,” Mr. Reardon replied soothingly. He stepped round to the back of the mate and permitted his trusty monkey wrench to slip down into his hand. “But if ye continue to look in that direction, Misther Schultz, ye'll see not wan light but several.”
“Donnerwetter! I gannot see dem,” Mr. Schultz protested, wondering if there might not be some defect in his eyesight.
“Have no fear. Keep lookin' that way an' ye'll see thim,” Mr. Reardon reassured him. “Ha-ha, ye divil!” he crooned—and struck.
“I'll gamble ye saw the lights I promised ye,” he breathed into the ear of the unconscious mate as he deftly caught the falling body and eased it noiselessly to the deck to avoid calling the attention of the helmsman to the interesting tableau going on behind him. Quickly he gagged Mr. Schultz with a strip of canvas; then he tied his hands behind him and bound him at ankle and knee with the short lengths of signal halyard. As a final attention he “frisked” the mate and removed his keys and a heavy automatic pistol.
“Lie there now, me jewel,” he said, and trotted out to the starboard end of the bridge, whistling shrilly “God Save the King.” When the swift patter of feet along the deck warned him that the steward was coming, he walked back amidships and opened the little sliding trap in the roof of the pilot-house, which on the Narcissus was set just below the bridge. The quartermaster's head was directly beneath the trap. “Oh-ho, me laddybuck!” Mr. Reardon murmured, and dropped his padded monkey wrench on that defenseless head. Instantly the quartermaster staggered and hung limply to the wheel.