Carl tossed a rope to Speake, Matt got one to Coleman, and Clackett succeeded in getting a line in the hands of Jordan. Ysabel tossed one end of her rope to Fingal, but he flung it aside with an oath. The negro soldier reached for it, but Fingal struck his hand fiercely aside, seized the soldier by the neck and began swimming with him toward the river bank.
While the rescued prisoners were being hauled aboard, Matt watched Fingal and the negro. The current was swift, but both men were strong swimmers. To Matt's satisfaction he saw the two gain the bank and get safely upon dry ground. Fingal's move was characteristic of him, for, as soon as he could lift himself, he shook his clenched fist at the submarine and those on her deck. If he had had a rifle, undoubtedly he would have done some shooting.
"Motor Matt!" cried Jordan.
He was sitting on the deck, his back against the side of the conning tower, shaking the water out of his ears.
"Well?" asked Matt.
"Did you come up under that launch by accident, or did you do it purposely?"
"I had that all figured out, Jordan," laughed Matt.
"It was the greatest play I ever heard of!"
"It was the only one we could make that would stand any show of winning. When you, and Speake, and Tirzal left the Grampus, you took all the rifles. We were left with only a brace of six-shooters. Of course I knew better than to try to get the best of Fingal, Cassidy and the soldier with two popguns when they were armed with rifles."
"Of course you did!" chuckled Jordan. "I'm as wet as a drowned rat, but I'm happy—oh, yes, happier than I ever thought I should be, a few minutes back. By the way, Matt, that gentleman with the dripping whiskers is Jeremiah Coleman, the fellow we came to rescue, and just missed leaving a few more prisoners to keep him company. Jerry, shake hands with Motor Matt. He was cracked up pretty high in those messages from New Orleans, and I must say that he fills the bill."