Nor did the Governor waste time in obeying. The others followed, and the boat shoved off. But scarcely had the oars caught the water when around the promontory came a large man-o’-war’s launch, a rapid-fire gun mounted on her bows. She was manned by about twenty men in Russian police uniform.
“From the ‘tramp,’” commented Alan excitedly. “And her gun is trained on us.”
“Get down to work!” shouted Jack to the straining oarsmen.
“No use!” groaned Kempt. “She’ll cross within a hundred yards of us. There’s no missing at such close range and on such a quiet sea. What a fool I was to—”
The launch was, indeed, bearing down on them despite the rowers’ best efforts, and must unquestionably cut them off before they could reach the yacht.
Alan drew his revolver.
“We’ve no earthly show against her,” he remarked quietly, “and it seems hard to ‘go down in sight of port.’ But let’s do what we can.”
“Put up that pop-gun,” ordered Kempt. “She will sink us long before you’re in range for revolver work. I’ll run up my handkerchief for a white flag.”
“To surrender?”
“What else can we do?”