"Daddy must have used this to carry the line to the bottom," said she, but I thought of the heavy rolls of sharkskin leather in the warehouse. She removed the cord and began winding it about her little hand into a hank.

"Now, little Jim, I am going to use your boat to reach that wreck.

Time is important. Has your father a rifle aboard?"

"Yes," she replied exultingly. "And here it is."

"Now, I know you are a dead shot. While I start the motor and get our boat over to the wreck, keep it covered."

An anxious glance at her father rea.s.sured her. He was breathing the oxygen regularly.

"I can do that. Shall I just scare them?"

"Unless they come out with hands up, instantly shoot to kill," I replied positively.

She brought the rifle across the gunwale, resting on one knee in the c.o.c.kpit, her body tense and alert. Her steadiness was inspiring. I knew then that the man I most wanted, the man with the bandaged hand, would know I was protected, for he had already tested her markmanship.

A moan came from the reviving father drinking the life-giving oxygen.

"Yes, Daddy, I will be there in a few minutes. Breathe the oxygen deep and you will be up soon," she called to him affectionately, at the same time gazing steadily along the rifle barrel trained upon the Boche boat.

"Is there another 'terror' in the _t.i.tian_?" I asked as I stepped into the boat and pushed off.

"Under the stern seat," she replied, without taking her face from the gunstock.

I started the motor of the little boat, swung around and came boldly down upon the sunken bow of the Boche boat, fastened to it, and took a position just in front of the cabin. There was no sound of life inside.

I called to them to surrender and come out with hands up or I would dynamite the wreck and send them to h.e.l.l there and then.

This order started m.u.f.fled voices inside, but with no apparent inclination to obey.

I repeated the order, and added, "I will give you just one minute to line up or be blown up."

This last information produced animation.

I looked back to the _Sprite_. Little Jim's eyes were gleaming down the rifle barrel like an avenging angel. The game was big and I was after it.

The man of big girth came first, having to wriggle his way out of the tiny cabin door, and stood facing me with his hands elevated as far as his fat would allow. Then appeared another middle-aged, medium-sized man, of a business-like appearance, who looked like a decent person caught in bad company.

"Where's the other one?" I demanded.

"He's dead," instantly replied the man with the bandaged hand.

"I want to see him," said I, far enough away to use the rifle.

"I say he is dead--inside," the fat man replied in rather a surly tone.

"Bring him out where I can see him," I demanded, not moving. "You bring him out," I added, looking at the thin man.

Frightened and craven, he let his arms down, went in the cabin. He returned soon, dragging out a body covered with blood. My shot must have hit him fair.

The thin man then took his stand beside the fat one, and elevated his hands again without an order, and both looked across at little Jim and her deadly rifle.

"Who are you?" demanded the pudgy man with the bandaged hand. "What right have you here?"

"An American citizen arresting a criminal caught in the act," I said, proceeding to put the "Yankee Bridle" on his wrists behind him.

"You needn't tie us up like slaves. We are gentlemen," he urged stoutly, but I ordered him to keep his mouth shut, which he did.

I then ordered the two men into the stern of the motor boat and applied the same "Yankee Twist" about their ankles, fastening the two of them together. The other man appeared dead.

I searched out and tossed into the motor boat everything of a private nature, including some expensive hand luggage, afraid the boat would sink.

I left the dead man on board and started with my prisoners at full speed to where I thought the engineer and cook had possibly landed in the riddled lifeboat.

I could soon see them lying on the beach. As I approached they started away.

Running into the sh.o.r.e as close as I could, I fired at them, and they stopped. It didn't take long to get and tie them up with the rest.

Without arms, on one of the barren coral islands that compose the Tortugas, they knew they had no chance of escape.

I then returned to the wreck, taking the lifeboat in tow. Small air compartments in each end prevented the cutter sinking entirely, but it had drifted away from the anch.o.r.ed _Sprite_, on which I could see little Jim moving about. Turning my attention to the "dead" man, I found the bullet had hit him so high on his forehead it did not enter his head, but had ploughed its way under the skin, the shock causing insensibility. Drenching him with sea water soon developed signs of life, and it wasn't long before he joined the sullen crew in corded harness, his head bandaged the best I knew how.

CHAPTER XVIII

Definitely deciding the big Hun boat would not sink, I let the anchor go, pulled the little lifeboat aboard and plugged the bullet holes, for I knew I would need it.

The Gulf sun was pretty hot and I didn't blame the Boches much when they called for drink and food.

Their cook, a flabby tool scarcely full witted, possessed a craven fear of going into the next world. I released him with a forcible injunction that his first tricky move would send him there instantly.

With knocking knees and gibbering to himself, he went about feeding the others.

I saw little Jim moving around on the _Sprite_, so concluded matters in her quarter were satisfactory. I had to go over there and I felt sure of what I would find. I hesitated, however, for it was a delicate situation. But it could be put off no longer, so I got into the little lifeboat and drew up alongside.

With a grimness of a lion playing with a cub little Jim had coaxed her black-bearded father back, and given him food and dry clothing. Though still very weak he was sitting in the bottom of the boat, leaning against the tiny cabin, evidently pleased with her wheedling and caresses. But when he got a good look at me I thought his eyes would jump from their sockets. At first there was the fierce, savage look of the enraged Georgia Cracker, which as quickly melted into a joyful delight as his memory served him.

Little Jim ran to the side of the _Sprite_, grasped me by the hand and led me to him. "Daddy, this is Mr. Wood. If he had not come to-day what might have happened!" she exclaimed, manifestly undaunted by the dreadful experience she had undergone.

Though full bearded, with black hair like a lion's mane, there remained that wonderful aquiline nose and powerful jaw and chin of Fighting Howard Byng. From where he sat he slowly reached up a broad, generous, strong hand.

Little Jim thought the emotion he showed was in recognition of the service I had rendered him. But as our eyes met we both understood--to little Jim his name should remain Canby--sponge diver, merchant and Gulf trader.

"Little Jim, your eyes are good and so is your aim. You watch what is going on over there while I have a talk with your father." Then I explained to her that the cook was commissioned to feed them food from his hand, as their own hands were serving another purpose just then.

Without hesitation she took her rifle and sat down in the stern, letting her legs hang over--the same picture as when I first saw her sitting on the wharf waiting for the tide to uncover the bull alligator.