That question was soon answered when they reached the surface, and
you may be sure that no time was lost in carrying out this maneuver.
As the searchlight was sprung into place, on the top of the dripping
conning-tower, its rays swept the sea for yards around. But of the
derelict, that had recently floated, there was not a trace to be seen.
Only some few timbers and a splintered plank or two were left to mark
her passing.
“Wow!” whispered Herc, under his breath, to Ned; “it’s kind of spooky,
isn’t it?”
“I don’t know about that,” laughed the other Dreadnought Boy; “but it’s
mighty effective. If this had been war, and that had been a foreign
vessel, we’d have blown her up in just that way.”
“I hope we get a chance to some day,” exclaimed Herc.
But Ned’s voice was very sober as he rejoined seriously:
“It’s a mighty serious thing, Herc, to talk about jokingly. Hundreds of
human beings would have gone to their reckoning if that vessel had been
a warship. That’s something to think over, isn’t it?”
The Lockyer cruised about among the wreckage awhile longer so that
the officers might judge for themselves just what had been the result
of the torpedoing. All agreed that it was as effective a bit of work
as they had ever seen done. It being decided then that the submarine
had been put through about as severe a series of tests as could be
imagined, the order was given to put about and head back to Grayport.
The searchlight was extinguished, and the engines speeded up to twenty
knots. Rushing along the surface, the Lockyer rapidly ate up the miles
between herself and home. As she swept along, Mr. Lockyer’s face was
all aglow. In a quiet aside, Captain McGill had told him something
concerning the report he was going to make to the Government. Whatever
that something was, it had caused the inventor’s eyes to fill with
something else than gladness, as he seized Captain McGill’s hand, and
exclaimed in a voice that quivered:
“I’ve worked and waited for this many weary days, sir. It’s the
proudest moment of my life.”
Somehow it seemed fitting, too, that the inventor’s hopes and ambitions
should come to their fruition out on the lonely sea, on board a craft
being driven at racing speed by engines of his construction and design.
Block Island had been left off to starboard, and the choppy waters of
the Sound were beginning to boil about them, when there came a hail
from Midshipman Stark at the wheel.
“I can see the lights of a craft of some kind ahead, sir,” he reported,
turning to Lieutenant Parry.
“What is she?” was the rejoinder.
“Can’t make out, sir. I--Jove, there goes a rocket. She’s in distress
of some kind!”
“That rocket was a distress signal, sure enough,” rejoined Mr. Parry;
“hand me those glasses, will you, Stark?”
Holding the wheel with one hand, the middy did as he was requested.
Then his scrutiny returned to the lights of the distant vessel. As
he gazed, another rocket soared up and spattered yellowy on the
night--like an egg shattered against a blackboard.
“She’s a big, white yacht, as nearly as I can make out,” said the
lieutenant, after he had centered the glasses on the distant craft.
“Shall I head for her, sir?”
“By all means. Keep her on that course while I go below and consult
Captain McGill.”
The officer soon appeared in the conning-tower, with the other naval
dignitaries. Captain McGill now took his turn at scrutinizing the yacht
through the night glasses.
He set them down with an exclamation. The submarine was not more than a
few hundred yards from the yacht now.
“Mutiny on board, by Jove!” exclaimed the officer.
“Mutiny, sir?”
“Aye, aye, Parry! We must lay alongside. I can see an old gentleman
and a girl on the stern deck. They seem to have been driven there,
for the crew are lined up at the break in the deck, and appear to be
threatening them.”
“Great Scott,” cried one of the other officers. “Mutiny on the high
seas! It’s our clear duty to quell the disturbance and capture the
rascals.”
“Right you are, Conover, and we’re going to do it,” spoke up Captain
McGill. “Mr. Lockyer, will you manage the searchlight, please? Mr.
Parry, please pass the word below for your capable young men. Send them
on deck, and tell them to station themselves there waiting orders.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“This certainly is the eventful night,” exclaimed Ned, as he and Herc,
with old Tom close behind, emerged on deck and saw what was going
forward.
“It looks like a big night to-night,” hummed Herc blithely. The
prospect of a fight was always a delight to the red-headed youth, and
things certainly seemed to be “freezing up for one,” as old Tom put it.
Inside the conning-tower, excitement ran at high tension now. As they
drew near and the white pencil of the searchlight shot out, bathing the
yacht in its white brilliancy, the vessel began to slip through the
water.
“Ha! Those scoundrels are trying to slip away, but they don’t know what
they’re up against,” said Captain McGill, his lips compressing grimly.
“More speed, please, Mr. Stark.”
The middy’s hand shot out and touched the telegraph lever. Instantly,
down in the engine room, cranks began to revolve faster. A quiver ran
through the Lockyer as, like an unleashed greyhound, she leaped forward.
But as they neared the yacht, overhauling her in leaps and bounds, it
began to look as if they might be too late. The old gentleman was seen
to raise a pistol and fire. At the same instant a sharp, crackling
volley burst from the mutineers. They saw the girl, who wore a white
yachting suit, turn despairingly, her face set toward the oncoming
submarine, as if in mute appeal. As the searchlight bathed her
features, Lockyer gave a sharp cry.
“Great Heavens! It’s Miss Pangloss and her father!” he cried.
“Steady on, Lockyer!” whispered Parry, placing his arms about the
inventor. “We’ll be alongside in a minute, old man.”
“Heaven grant we may not be too late,” breathed the inventor. In the
darkness of the conning-tower he shook like a leaf. But his gaze never
left the intense scene on the after deck of the yacht. Its details
shone up in the searchlight’s radiance as if it had been a picture on a
lighted stage.
“Give them a hail, Parry,” ordered Captain McGill, as the submarine
crept in alongside the moving yacht.
“Ahoy, on the yacht!” came the lieutenant’s voice; “heave to
immediately.”
“You go to blazes!” shouted a bloated-faced fellow, leaning over the
rail, and shaking his fist menacingly.
“Yes, get out if you know what’s good for you buttinskis,” roared
another man, joining the first.
“This is a fair warning, men,” exclaimed Lieutenant Parry. “This vessel
is a naval craft. If--”
“Oh, come off! That’s no naval craft. Where’s your pretty uniform?”
jeered the mutineers. Then, from the bloated-faced man came a sharp
order.
“If those fellows try to board us, fill them full of lead.”
“Looks as if we’ve tackled a tougher proposition than we thought,
sir,” said Lieutenant Parry, addressing Captain McGill, whose head now
projected above the open top of the conning-tower.
“For heaven’s sake, gentlemen, whoever you are, lay alongside,”
appealed the elderly man, whom, it could now be seen by all who
knew him, was, indeed, Mr. Pangloss. The apostle of peace seemed
transfigured, however. His eyes blazed, and his white hair stood out
like a mane. In his hand he held a revolver. It was doubtless this
weapon that had so far held the mutineers back.
“Blow the rascals to the sky!” he shouted angrily, shaking his fist at
them menacingly.
As for the girl, she stood erect and apparently fearless. Channing
Lockyer’s eyes dwelt admiringly on her brave, defiant form. But the
old man’s words proved a reminder to the mutineers that they were
neglecting their mission of loot and plunder. With a yell, they charged
aft as he shouted his defiance.