“They’re stretching a hose to the Senorita’s forward tank,” he breathed. “There are some men on the Senorita, and—let me look again!”
He protruded his head again, and then he thought he heard a low whistle.
Cliff turned, looking down toward the stern of the white vessel.
There, trussed up like two turkeys, in the cockpit of the Libertad, lay Tom and Nicky, the latter grinning a little sheepishly.
Cliff turned to his companions. His voice came in swift, whispered words. Jack nodded.
“We’ll do it!” he answered, hoarsely. “Inch as close as you can and we’ll be behind you. You take the cockpit, and free your chums. I’ll race forward, shooting, call Jim to help, and try to prevent the others from getting off our wreck. Sam, you shoot—in the air, in the water—anywhere; but shoot, load again and shoot—holler and try to scare them if you can’t hit them!”
“All right,” said Sam. Cliff inched along the deck. He was in plain view, now, from forward on the Senorita, or from the Libertad.
But the trio in the cabin of the latter vessel were deep in conversation, and the men were busy with the hose.
“Start your bilge pump!” called a sailor. Tew, on the white boat, bent and engaged a clutch; there was a heavy grind of gearing and the slow pulsation of a pump.
“Now!” whispered Cliff, and dashed for the rail.