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The Spanish officer glared at his prisoners sternly. Clif's bearing was quiet and dignified. "So you are the officer who commanded the Yankee pigs?" growled the man. "I am an American naval cadet," was the response. The Spaniard said nothing more for a moment, but continued his piercing look. "You put on a bold front," he said at last. "You must have looked differently when you were running away."
Though very much in appearance like the old-fashioned round shells, it was in two parts, ingeniously hinged so that when closed it required very close scrutiny to detect the seam. It was hollow, and consequently light in weight. This fact had first arrested Clif's attention and had set his thoughts to work upon the mystery that was connected with it.
He therefore silently waited in his place of concealment to see what the enemy would do. The latter evidently had not heard Clif's movements, and continued slowly to advance, stooping occasionally and peering from side to side. "I think I know what you're after," muttered Clif below his breath.
"Well, to be sure, the girl is pretty pretty as I ever saw, unfortunately for her. But you may see her again. I expect she is likely to be in the same prison with you." Every drop of blood left Clif's face at those terrible words. Bessie Stuart in prison! "Merciful providence!" he gasped.
And this Clif did; and when he had completed the task it was found that the most important work he had done that night, was in securing that shell and unraveling its mystery. As he issued from the admiral's room Cadet Wells, one of Clif's best friends, approached him. "Faraday, old fellow," he said, "I've got news that will interest you." "I'm listening."
"I suppose you wish to deny everything," said he. "But I assure you it will do not the least good in the world." "I presume not," escaped Clif's lips. The Spaniard frowned angrily, but he went on without a change of tone. "You were captured, if I understand it truly, from a merchantman which you ran upon the rocks in order to prevent one of our vessels from recapturing her?"
When he disappeared, he dove under the boat and rose again on the opposite side. The Spaniard would look in vain in that spot for his intended victim. But the Spaniard in the bow discovered Clif's head as it appeared for an instant above the water. With an imprecation of wrath he called his companion's attention to the spot. But one of them was armed, it seemed.
Clif's blood rose at that blow, but he held himself back and watched and waited. That was a moment of peril for the treacherous Spaniard; what would have been his terror may be imagined, had he known the victim into whose eyes he was glaring was clutching in one hand a sharp knife, ready at any instant to plunge it into him.
For, as he watched the race, there was a growing conviction in Clif's mind that the Wilmington was so far out to sea that she could not hope to stop the Spanish steamer except by the power of her guns. And a hole in the side of the enemy's vessel, however desirable under ordinary circumstances, did not coincide with his hopes or ideas on this occasion.
Feverishly Clif watched to see what the gunboat would do. The captain continued staring and muttering exclamations of astonishment. "I wonder if he does want us," he cried. "Por dios, I do think that's it." And a second later he made up his mind and whirled about. "Hard a port!" he roared. And Clif's heart leaped with joy as he heard that order.
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