"In with you, Dick!" shouted Matt, the pingity-ping of bullets on the steel deck giving point to his words.
"But you're hurt, matey," answered Dick.
"No time to talk!" was Matt's brief response.
Dick, without delaying matters further, dropped through the top of the tower. The firing suddenly ceased. As Matt mounted the tower and threw his feet over the rim, he saw the reason.
Four of the ragged soldiers had leaped from the bank to the submarine's deck. More would have come, but the gap of water had grown too wide for them to leap across it. These four, scrambling and stumbling toward Matt, caused their comrades to hold their fire for fear of injuring them.
Just as Matt dropped down the iron ladder, the foremost of the negro soldiers reached the tower. His big hands seized the rim as he made ready to hoist himself upward and follow the fugitives into the interior of the boat.
Matt had yet to close the hatch, and the negro's hands were in the way. With his clenched fist he struck the black fingers. His work was somewhat hampered from the fact that his left arm was still not to be depended on, so he had to use his right hand entirely.
With a howl of pain the negro pulled away his hands. Thereupon, quick as a flash, Matt reached upward and closed the hatch. Not a moment too soon was this accomplished, for the other three soldiers had reached the tower and were preparing to assist their comrade.
Matt pushed into place the lever holding the hatch shut.
"Fill the ballast tanks!" he shouted. "Pass the word to Clackett, Dick. Lively, now! Ten-foot submersion! We've got to clear the decks of these negroes. If they should break one of the lunettes we'd be in a serious fix."