The general was seeking in vain to extricate himself from his difficulties. Every time he tried to get up, his boots would slip on the rounded plates, and he would sit down on the sharp points of his spurs.
The air was fairly blue in his immediate vicinity, and a perfect bedlam of epithets went up from him. Don Carlos, seeing Matt in the top of the tower, guessed rightly that the prisoners had released themselves in some manner. The don did not return to assist the general, but danced about on the bank, tossing his arms frantically and shouting for him to make haste.
The general was more than anxious to oblige, but fate was against anything like haste. The sharp points of his spurs galled him, and when his spurs ceased from troubling, his long sword got between his legs and tripped him.
Matt had abundant time to slide over the top of the conning tower, grab the general by the collar of his red coat and pull him erect on the ridge-like spine of the deck.
With a howl of wrath, Pitou backed up against the conning tower, drew his sword, threw his left arm over his face and proceeded savagely to carve slices out of the air.
The situation was serious, from several points of view, but Matt, for all that, could hardly repress a laugh.
Then, to crown the ignominy that was being heaped upon the general, Speake suddenly hoisted himself above the top of the tower, noted the situation, reached out calmly and passed his arms about the general's body under the shoulders.
The next moment Matt had a glimpse of a red coat, a pair of cavalry boots, and flashing spurs being elevated and dragged down into the maw of the tower.
It was a tragic disappearance—tragic for the general—for, in this inglorious manner, he was leaving the scene of his military exploits.
As soon as Matt got below he found his friends enjoying the general as much as he had done. Clackett had taken his sword, Speake had pulled off his boots, and Dick was sitting on the captive's breast, pinning him to the floor while he affixed cords to his wrists and ankles.