All three of the prisoners were excited, as well they might be. An opportunity offered to save themselves and the boat—success or failure hanging on their quickness and silence.
Advancing to the door, Matt laid his hand on the knob. Slowly he twisted the catch out of its socket, and then inch by inch forced the door open.
Yet, slight though the noise was that accompanied the click of the catch, Pedro heard it. With a startled exclamation he leaped to his feet.
Matt and Speake sprang at him, Matt catching his wrists and Speake throwing an arm about his throat and clapping a hand over his lips.
The odds were against Pedro, and he was helpless; yet, for all that, he managed to squirm about and make considerable noise.
There was a drone of voices overhead, coming down the open hatch. The voices suddenly ceased, and some one was heard floundering over the deck to the top of the tower.
The electric light was not burning in the periscope room, and the only light that entered the chamber came from the hatch. Any one looking downward would not have been able to see anything distinctly except in the immediate vicinity of the bottom of the ladder. Matt, Speake and Pedro, as it chanced, were close to the locker.
"Anythin' wrong down there, greaser!" called a husky voice.
"No, señor," answered Matt, trying to imitate the rough voice of the Mexican.