“All clear. Come along and take the schooner.”
The first man from the Valkyrie’s yawl was just coming over the bow. Wound about his waist was a rope ladder which he made fast and dropped. Up they swarmed, so fast that they were treading upon one another’s shoulders.
Rifles slung on their backs, pistols in their fists, they crowded around their captain and clamored to be led against the thieves and assassins from Ecuador. Mr. Duff crawled over the bowsprit, the last man aboard. His years and his girth had hampered him. The others had rudely shoved him aside. He was puffing and blowing, and his temper was ruined.
“The scoundrels, they pranced all over me, Captain Cary. Where’s this scrimmage of yours? Here we stand like a bunch of idiots at a tea party. What’s that you’re lugging on your shoulder? A machine gun?”
“One of them,” laughed Richard Cary, affectionately thumping his chief officer. “I had to chuck the other one over the side. You might have got hurt with it. Hop along aft and finish it up. If you find any loose hombres, throw them into a hatch.”
“Then you didn’t scupper the lot?” eagerly exclaimed Mr. Duff.
“I had no chance to count noses,” answered Captain Cary. “Take a look in the forecastle first.”
“Let’s go, boys,” thundered Mr. Duff. “Viva Colombia!”