The gods never repaired more blithely to a
Bacchanalian revel on Parnassus. Two by two, in rigid order of rank
they were escorted into the saloon, and the eloquent popping of corks
was as music in their ears. The Admiral took his place at the head of
the table; the rest disposed themselves suitably.
With a muttered excuse, Dan slipped out of a near-by door; the stewards
disappeared; every one on the _Tampico_ stole quietly away.
Admiral Congosto had no sooner raised his glass for the first toast
than the two iron bulkhead doors slid together with a clang, followed
by the rasp of bolts flying home. The Admiral of the fleet and his
lords commanders were hopelessly imprisoned amid the luxury of saloon
surroundings, as hopelessly imprisoned as though they had been shut
into the darkness of the lower hold.
In the meantime, the _Tampico_, from hold to masthead, was blazing like
a tall Sound steamboat. Dan gained the bridge and gazed at the
illumination with a smile; for all this splendor of electrical display
was for a purpose.
"You've locked them in, eh?" said Mr. Howland, abruptly. He had been
pacing the bridge, the victim of many doubts.
"Yes," replied Dan; and there was a sharp inflection in the
monosyllable which precluded further questioning. The owner had
instructed his Captain to land the guns which were lying in the hold of
the steamship, and the young Captain was intent on the matter in hand.
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