The other boat was moving in a course that angled slightly with the direction the Grampus was following. Because of this the second craft was some time in passing through the glow of the search light.
As Dick called out, those at the periscope table saw the Whitehead torpedo glide into the gleam from the electric projector. A rope held the forward end of the torpedo to the stern of the other submarine, the buoyancy of the steel cylinder causing its rear part to stand almost straight up in the water.
It was an odd procession the boat and the torpedo made as they defiled through the pencil of light.
"Dot's der feller vat shtole Matt's dorpeto!" cried Carl. "Run against der rope, Tick, und preak der dorpeto loose."
"Not much, I won't, matey," breathed Dick. "We're not going to take any chances with that Whitehead."
"It certainly wasn't that torpedo that went off, a little while ago, Dick," observed Speake.
"Right-o," Dick answered, startled by the thought this remark of Speake's had aroused. "It was a torpedo, though, and that other craft must have launched it at us."
"Ach, himmelblitzen!" gasped Carl. "For vy should dot odder poat shoot some dorpetos ad us, hey?"
"Give it up, Carl, unless there are some of those Sons of the Rising Sun aboard."
Dick slid down the ladder in a hurry.