As soon as he recovered from his first horrified shock, the officer leaped toward a group of the Chinamen and emptied his revolver into them. But the pirates far outnumbered the cartridges in his weapon, and when his last bullet had been fired several of the yellow devils darted at him with gleaming knives. Whereupon the officer turned and fled to the wireless operator’s room nearby.
He got inside and fastened the heavy door just a second ahead of his pursuers. While the Chinamen were battering at the portal, he had the operator send out wireless calls for help, telling what was occurring on board.
Several ships and land stations picked up the strange story as far as I have related it, at which point the message ceased abruptly.
From that instant the Nippon vanished as completely as if she never had existed. Not one word ever again was heard of the vessel or of a single soul on board.
It required only a few minutes’ search through the newspaper files to find the information I sought, and soon I was back at the observatory.
Dr. Gresham greeted me eagerly.
“The Steamship Nippon,” I reported, “carried a cargo of American shoes, plows and lumber.”
My friend’s face fell with keen disappointment.
“What else?” he inquired. “Weren’t there other things?”
“Lots of odds and ends,” I replied—“pianos, automobiles, sewing machines, machinery—”