"Right you are, Matt," muttered the captain, "and I'm in a quandary. We'll come up between the schooner and the brig and investigate before taking any decided action."
On and on the Grampus glided, unseen until, when she had attained the position she desired, she rose upward with a flurry of waves creaming from her deck plates.
From the elevated top of the periscope there was a view of the brig's dismantled deck; and Matt and the captain could see, as plainly as though they were on the derelict, Dick Ferral, gun at his shoulder, standing over the form of Carl. And Captain Sixty's bulky form was equally clear, as well as the figures of the rabble at his heels.
It was an astounding sight for those in the submarine, but it was a sight that left no time for useless words.
"Cassidy," cried Captain Nemo, Jr., with a snap of his lean jaws, "go to the torpedo room, take Speake with you and slip one of the Whiteheads into the port tube. After that, stand by for orders."
"Ay, ay, sir," answered Cassidy, and quickly vanished.
"I'm going up in the tower, Matt," said the captain. "You can crowd in to the lunettes and watch what goes on."
Then the captain made his way up the ladder with Matt tight at his heels. Hardly had Matt got his eyes to the lunette when a ringing thump echoed from the deck plates.
"A rifle shot!" exclaimed Nemo, Jr. "I'll just warn those rascals what they're up against."
As he finished speaking, he pulled the lever that secured the hatch and pushed the iron disk slowly upward.