“Looks for all the world like that Herzovinian count,” he exclaimed excitedly. O’Neil strained his eyes to see, but the boat was rapidly being swallowed into the night.
Phil noted the two big cargo canoes alongside the schooner, while he saw a score or more of figures moving about on the deck above him. He was on the point of climbing the ladder when a voice from above in broken English called to him to halt.
“No one is permit to enter,” the man said. Phil saw that it was a Herzovinian sailor.
“I would like to speak to your officer, if there is one there,” Phil said haughtily.
“What do you want?” was asked gruffly. “This vessel is chartered by the Herzovinian government, and it is not permitted to visit.”
Phil’s anger blazed into flame. For the fraction of a second he was on the point of leading his men up to forcibly capture the schooner, but the cool, restraining hand of O’Neil, an old friend frequently encountered by this impetuous youth, brought second thoughts to ward off a rash act.
“Steady, sir,” O’Neil whispered. “There’s a big flag flapping up there. Can’t tell for sure, but I can guess that it’s the man-of-war flag. We’ve made them show their hand; don’t spoil it by getting yourself in trouble.”
Phil sank back into the boat. His foot had been on the lower rung of the sea ladder.
“May I inquire what you are unloading?” he asked.
There were indistinct whispers from above.