Of course, every one was highly elated at the successful outcome of the ruse which Rawlins had suggested and all felt that at last the long chase was over, that the leaders of the gang of “reds” were prisoners under lock and key at Trinidad, and that soon the destroyer would be homeward bound with her mission successfully accomplished. And no one was more pleased at the outcome than Robinson, the chief officer of the Devonshire. At the suggestion of the officials in Dominica, it had been decided to keep him and his men on the destroyer until definite news was received of his ship’s whereabouts when, as he had pointed out to Mr. Pauling and Commander Disbrow, he and his men could be put aboard the Devonshire and could again assume the duties which had been so tragically interrupted by the rascals from the submarine. Moreover, as the Administrator of Dominica had reminded Mr. Pauling, the presence of Robinson and his men would be needed at whatever port the Devonshire was held, in order to identify the pirates and to testify to the facts.

And now, knowing that he would soon be back on his own ship and would have an opportunity of telling his story to the British authorities and would have the satisfaction of seeing the murderers of Captain Masters and the radio operator receive their just punishment, Robinson and his men were, if possible, more elated than Mr. Pauling and his party.

“It means hangin’ for the bally blighters!” he declared. “Piracy ’twas--no less--and though I’ve never been to a hangin’ yet, it would do me good to go to theirs--when I think of Captain Masters and poor ‘Sparks’ shot down in cold blood.”

“Yes, they richly deserve it,” agreed Mr. Pauling. “But I’m afraid punishment for this crime will rob us of the chance to punish them for the other crimes they have committed. However, it makes little difference what government deals with them, I suppose.”

“Yes, you may be sure the British are not going to give them up,” declared Mr. Henderson. “We may think our English cousins slow in some things, but British laws and British justice are inexorable as well as swift and these rascals will curse the day they ran their stolen ship into a British port. Better for them had they given themselves up to us.”

“I suppose we’d better send a message to Trinidad saying we’re coming and have the Devonshire’s crew and chief officer aboard,” said Mr. Pauling. “I should have done it before. No need of cipher now. Just see Bancroft, Rawlins, and give him this message.”

Presently the diver returned, a frown on his face. “He can’t send it, Mr. Pauling,” he announced. “Something’s wrong with his instruments. He says they went wrong just after we got the message this morning and he can’t locate the trouble. Just as soon as he gets the things fixed, he’ll shoot it off.”

“Too bad,” exclaimed Mr. Pauling, “but there’s really no hurry. Lucky it didn’t happen when we had really important matters to send--for example, when we notified the officials of the Devonshire’s seizure.”

“And if he doesn’t get his set fixed, we can send with ours, when we get nearer,” said Tom.

“To be sure!” assented his father. “I’d almost forgotten that--it’s been so long since you boys were called upon.”

Interested as they were in everything pertaining to radio, the two boys hurried to the radio room and found Bancroft busy at his instruments and thoroughly exasperated.

“It’s just got my goat!” he exclaimed, as he glanced up at the boys’ arrival. “I never ran up against anything like it. I’ve been over the antenna and the insulation, and I’ve worked back to the inductance and the condensers. Everything seems ship-shape and yet the whole blamed thing seems dead. Current’s all right, I’ve tried new tubes, and the wave meter and ammeter tests are O. K. and yet I can’t get a blessed reply.”

“Well, that doesn’t prove you’re not sending,” declared Tom. “How do you know the trouble isn’t in the station you’re trying to get? Maybe your messages are going out all right and they get them but can’t send back.”

“Oh, I’m not such a boob as not to think of that!” retorted Bancroft. “I’ve tried four different stations and not a reply from any. And the radio compass is in the same fix. It’s downright uncanny, I tell you. Look here! The filament oscillates and the ammeter registers and yet I’ll bet there isn’t a wave going out. It’s just as if the thing were short circuited somewhere, but I can swear it’s not. I’ve even hooked up a whole new set.”

“Say, I’ve an idea to test it and be sure you’re not sending,” cried Tom. “I’ll go over to the radio-compass and listen and you send and see if I hear anything. Then I’ll send and see if you can hear. If there’s even a trace of waves, we ought to get them at a few yards away.”

“That’s a great scheme,” agreed Bancroft enthusiastically. “And say, I wonder if your sets are all right.”

“We’ll try them too, after we do this,” said Tom as he left the room.

But Tom’s scheme was a dismal failure. Although the set at the radio compass seemed in perfect working order, he could detect no sign of a message from Bancroft’s instruments a few yards away and when: he returned to the wireless room, Bancroft reported! that he had heard nothing.

“Well, that does beat the Dutch,” declared Tom, “Now I’m going to test our sets. Perhaps everything’s hoodooed. You go to the radio compass, Frank, and Mr. Bancroft can stay here and I’ll go to our sets and we’ll try to get some sound or to send. If they’re all dead, it must be some atmospheric trouble. Perhaps the air’s full of electricity or something.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Bancroft, “That gives me an idea! Perhaps it’s due to that volcano over at Martinique--Mt. Pelee you know, the one that destroyed St. Pierre. It’s still active and it’s only a few miles from Dominica. If I could only get some dope from the station at Fort de France I could find out.”

“I don’t know,” replied Tom. “I read somewhere that active volcanoes did all sorts of queer things to ships’ compasses and if they affect magnets, I don’t see why they shouldn’t affect radio instruments. But if that’s it, then it’s mighty funny you got the message this morning.”

“But I didn’t!” exclaimed Bancroft. “I haven’t received any message since day before yesterday. That message your father got was a cable.”

“Gosh!” ejaculated Tom. “I thought all along it was a radio. I never asked, but just took it for granted. Then you don’t know how long these sets have been out of order?”

“Well, I know they were all right when we sent those messages off after we picked up the Devonshire’s boat,” replied Bancroft.

“Then perhaps it’s the volcano,” said Tom. “If it is, the sets will work all right after we get farther away.”

“And we’ve forgotten something else,” put in Frank. “How can we tell whether it’s the sending or receiving sets that have gone bad? Maybe they all send and won’t receive or all receive and won’t send.”

“Why, of course that’s so,” assented Tom. “If it’s the same trouble with all--the volcano or atmosphere or anything, then we may all be sending but can’t receive. But you’re wrong, in a way, because we know it must be in the receiving end anyway, or we’d hear some messages from ships or shore even if they didn’t get ours. So if we’re not sending, the things have gone wrong both ways. Well, I’m going to ours now, so listen.”

It was now night, a dark, inky black night such as only occurs in the tropics, with the darkness seeming to shut one in by a curtain and Tom had actually to feel his way along the decks. The sea was fairly smooth, and the destroyer, steadied by her swift rush through the water, was making easy weather of it, and by the vibration of her hull Tom knew that she was being driven at the greatest speed possible in her still crippled condition. The decks seemed deserted, although Tom knew that, hidden from view in the blackness, the watch was being kept and once he glimpsed a dim, white, ghostly figure as it passed through the rays of a running light forward and he heard faint voices from the direction of the chart room and bridge. But somehow he had a peculiar feeling of mystery or danger afoot and glanced nervously about. Then, realizing how foolish he was, he shook off the childish fears of the dark and reaching the stairs descended towards the little room where he and Frank had installed their radio outfits.

The steel-walled, narrow alleyway was dimly lighted by screened electric bulbs and reaching the door to the room, Tom turned the knob, swung it open, and stepped into the black interior. With groping fingers he reached for the switch beside the door and pressed the button. At his touch the place was flooded with brilliant light and dazed by the sudden glare Tom involuntarily turned his face and blinked. The next instant the steel ceiling seemed to crash down upon his head, his knees sagged limply, the light danced and spun about and he felt himself sinking into a bottomless black pit.

Slowly consciousness came back to him. First, as a dull, throbbing ache, then as a stabbing pain in his head and with the pain came the dim memory of the blinding light, the blow and oblivion. What had happened? What had fallen from above to strike him? Why was it so dark? Why did he feel suffocating? Had the lights gone out? Was he still pinned under the object which had hit him?

Perhaps, he thought, there had been an accident, a collision. Perhaps, even now, the destroyer was sinking. He strove to turn his head, to rise, and then, for the first time, he suddenly realized that his head was enveloped in the heavy choking folds of a blanket, that his arms were pinioned behind his back and with the discovery came the terrifying knowledge that he had been struck by some one; stunned, gagged, and bound by some enemy.

But, by whom? Who upon the destroyer could have done this? Who had been hiding in the room and for what reason?

Choking for breath, still dazed from the blow on his head, frightened and sick, feeling as if every breath under the smothering cloth must be his last, Tom nevertheless thought of the others. The vessel and his friends must be in danger; there must be mutiny afoot, and he groaned to think that he could not warn the others; could not even cry out. Then, suddenly he forgot all, forgot his aching dizzy head, his gasping, choking lungs, his terror and his plight, for through the folds of the blanket the sounds of a human voice came dimly to him. And, as Tom’s straining ears caught the words, he could scarcely believe he was not in a delirium. Terror froze the blood in his veins.

“Everything correct,” came faintly through the cloth. “We’ll fix the gear so she’ll go on the rocks in the Bocas. Yes, all out of it but this and I’ll fix this in a minute more. Oh, yes. Pretty near caught. Fool boy bobbed up unexpectedly. Knocked him out. Oh, no, toss him overboard presently. No, no trace.”

Then silence--and Tom, knowing his end was near, that in a few short moments he would be cast, bound, gagged and helpless into the black water, prayed for unconsciousness, prayed for oblivion that would end his sufferings. But the very terror of his fate kept his mind active and his senses alive, while each short, gasping breath he drew sent surges of awful, crashing pain through his temples and he felt as though his eyes were bulging from the sockets.

Then he felt himself roughly seized and being carried away bodily. He knew that in another instant he would find himself falling, would feel the cold waters close over him. Summoning all his fast ebbing strength, he uttered a piercing scream and once more lost consciousness.

Muffled by the blanket about his head, Tom’s last despairing cry could not have been heard ten feet away; but it was enough. Less than ten feet off, Sam the Bahaman was at that instant approaching the room, passing through the alleyway. At the boy’s smothered cry, he leaped to the door, flung it open and with a savage yell sprang at the figure about to throw the apparently lifeless boy through the open gun port.

So swift and silent had been Sam’s response to Tom’s cry that the negro’s yell was the first warning Tom’s captor had of the Bahaman’s approach. Startled, taken utterly by surprise, he dropped the boy’s body, whipped out a revolver and whirled about. But Sam, with head lowered, had hurled himself like a catapult across the room. Before the other could even aim his weapon, the negro’s head struck him squarely in the stomach with the force of a battering ram. With a gasping, awful gurgle the man doubled up and shot through the open gun port into the sea. Sam, carried forward by his own momentum, grasped the gun carriage and saved himself in the nick of time from plunging into the water after the writhing body of his victim.

The Bahaman gave one glance through the open barbette at the racing, black, foam-flecked waves and then, with a grin of satisfaction, he sprang to Tom’s side, whipped off the blanket, and tore loose the bonds about his wrists. Lifting the unconscious boy in his powerful black arms, he raced with him to the deck and to the room where Tom’s father and the others were chatting, all oblivious of the tragedy which had taken place beneath their feet.

To their frenzied questions as they worked feverishly over Tom, Sam could give but very vague and unsatisfactory replies. “Ah jus’ cotch tha’ soun’ of tha’ young gen’man’s cry, Chief,” he told Mr. Pauling. “An’ Ah knowed tha’ mus’ be trouble for he an’ burs’ into the room. An Ah seed tha’ Englishman jus’ mekkin’ fo’ to heave he out the gun po’t, Chief.”

“Englishman!” cried Mr. Pauling. “What Englishman?”

“Tha’ English sailor man, Chief,” replied Sam.

“You don’t mean Robinson!” exclaimed Mr. Pauling. “Where is he? What happened?”

“Yaas, Chief, tha’ officer we picked up in tha’ boat, Chief. He’s finish, Chief. Ah don’ rightly know where he gone, but Ah’ ’spec tha’ sharks got he.”

“Suffering cats!” cried out Rawlins. “Did you knock him overboard?”

Sam grinned. “Yaas, Sir,” he replied. “Leastwise, when Ah seed he mekkin’ to heave the young gen’man out, Ah jus’ butted he afore he could mek to shoot an Ah ’spec Ah butted he pretty hard, fo’ he jus’ mek one good grunt an’ scooned out o’ tha’ po’t like Davy Jones was callin’ he.”

“You old black rascal!” cried Rawlins, slapping Sam on the back. “I’ll say you butted him good--and I’ll bet he ‘scooned.’ Why, by glory, I’d rather be kicked by a mule than butted by that kinky head of yours.”

“Jove, but this is a mystery!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson. “The fellow must have gone crazy suddenly. Why on earth should he wish to injure Tom?”

“Perhaps Tom can tell us, when he comes to,” suggested Commander Disbrow. “Ah, he’s all right, he’ll be out of his faint in a moment.”

Presently Tom’s eyes opened and he looked about, a wild, uncomprehending expression on his face. Then, realizing that he really was among his friends, that his father was bending over him and that he had not been thrown into the sea, he smiled and closing his eyes, took a long deep breath.

When again he looked up, he was fully conscious and to his father’s anxious queries declared he felt all right except weak and that his head ached. Then, for the first time, the others discovered the great bruised lump upon his head and as it was being bandaged Tom told his amazing story.

“The scoundrel!” cried Mr. Pauling. “I can’t understand it. Whom was he talking to in the room?”

“In the room!” fairly shouted Rawlins. “Don’t you see it all, Mr. Pauling? He was talking to those blamed ‘reds.’ The whole thing’s a frame up. They weren’t shipwrecked at all. The Devonshire never was held up. It was all a trick and I said I had a hunch it was at the time. They just got aboard us to give them a chance to wreck the destroyer and get away. He put the radio sets out of commission and left the boys’ set ’til the last so he could call to his friends.”

Before Rawlins had uttered a dozen words, the Commander had slipped from the room and before the diver had ended he had given low-toned orders and commands.

“By Jove, I guess you’re right!” exclaimed Mr. Pauling. “But still, we got that cable from Trinidad this morning. The Devonshire must be there.”

Rawlins snorted. “Cable nothing!” he replied. “That was a fake--sent by the same bunch to head us for Trinidad. Didn’t Tom hear him say they’d fix our gear to put us on the rocks in the Bocas? Why, by gravy, they may be hanging around within sight of us now! There never was a Devonshire. They just dropped off from the sub in our course and pretended to be adrift. I’ll bet the old sub wasn’t fifty yards away when we took ’em aboard.”

“And we thought they’d fallen into our trap!” ejaculated Mr. Henderson. “And we were the ones who were caught.”

“A miss is as good as a mile,” Rawlins reminded him. “And we’re not caught yet. We’ll fool ’em still and land ’em if I have to follow them to Kingdom Come. Say, we’d better get the rest of that bunch rounded up before they do anything or get wise to Robinson being bumped off.”

“They’re attended to,” announced Commander Disbrow, as he reentered the room. “Every mother’s son of them is safe in double irons.”

“Bully for you!” cried Rawlins. “Now let’s put our heads together and see how we’ll nab the rest of the bunch.”

“There we’re up against it,” declared Mr. Pauling. “If we could make any of the prisoners confess, we might find out their plans, although I doubt if they know them. And we haven’t the least idea as to where the submarine is. I think it’s about hopeless.”

“I’ll be shot if ’tis,” declared the diver. “That fake British rascal was going to get off with a whole skin with his gang somewhere. You can bet he wouldn’t risk his dirty neck when we went on the rocks. All we’ve got to do is pretend to fall in with their plans, keep on for Trinidad, and watch developments. There was some plan to get this bunch off before we got there and we’re boobs if we can’t get on to it.”

“Yes, no doubt you’re right,” agreed Mr. Pauling. “But still I’m doubtful of success. The criminal always has the advantage in a case of this sort for he knows his own plans and makes them while knowing more or less of his pursuers’ plans and movements, whereas the authorities know nothing of his and must go largely by guess work. Possibly the boys might send some message--asking for further orders or pretending the exact plans had not gone through--and so get information.”

“No, that would give us away at once,” declared Rawlins. “They knew the radio instruments were all disabled and that Robinson, or whatever his real name was, intended to fix the boys’ set as soon as he was through talking, and now if we start butting in on radio again, they’ll shy off.”

“But what did he mean about fixing the gear and the Bocas?” asked Tom.

“The Bocas are the narrow channels leading into the Gulf of Paria from the Caribbean,” explained the Commander. “The tide runs swiftly and there are dangerous rocky shores on either side. If a ship’s steering gear or engines go wrong there, she’ll pile on the rocks in a moment. I expect the rascals planned to monkey with the steering gear--though how I can’t imagine. I’ve a gang of machinists and engineers going over every part of the ship now. No knowing but they may have done something already.”

“And to think we pitied them and thought them shipwrecked sailors!” exclaimed Frank.

“Yes, and I was fool enough to give away some of our plans,” lamented Mr. Pauling. “No doubt that confounded faker told them all to his friends on the sub.”

“But you didn’t tell him the secret cipher you used in notifying the authorities,” said Mr. Henderson. “How do you imagine they discovered it and managed to get the message to you?”

“I don’t think they did,” replied Mr. Pauling. “The cable came in in English and I had no suspicions. As long as the Devonshire and its crew were supposedly taken, I assumed that there was no further need for secrecy and that the officials used a plain message for that reason.”

“Hmm, I see,” mused the other. “I wonder where it was really sent from.”

“Probably not sent at all,” declared Rawlins. “More likely a plain fake from beginning to end, written right in Dominica and never saw the cable office.”

“Well, what are we going to do with this gang we’ve got in the brig?” inquired the Commander. “Take them to Trinidad?”

“I think the best and first thing is to question them,” replied Mr. Pauling. “By taking them one at a time we may learn something.”

Accordingly, the men were brought up, shackled and under guard, and Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson, who were past masters at the art of wringing damaging admissions from criminals, questioned each of the surly lot at length. But all their efforts to secure information amounted to but little. The men declared they knew nothing of the plans of their leaders; every one maintained that the story of the seizure of the Devonshire was gospel truth and all professed entire innocence of any wrong doing. No amount of cross questioning or threatening shook their story and not one made a statement which conflicted with another’s.

“They’re the most accomplished set of liars I ever ran across,” declared Mr. Pauling, “and the worst of it is, we really haven’t an atom of evidence or proof against them. If the Devonshire never turned up, they could claim that she had been sunk by the ‘reds’ and our own evidence as to the past activities of the villains would lend color to these fellows’ tale. Even the fact that Robinson plotted or planned to destroy us or that he was in league with those on the sub would not affect these men. They could hold that he was planted on the Devonshire and the rest of her crew knew nothing of it.”

“Yes, that’s very true,” admitted the Commander, “but I would suggest we put into Barbados and leave this crowd there. Possibly the Admiralty Courts may be able to hold them on some charge.”

“I would, but for the fact that if, as Rawlins thinks, the sub is watching us, our going to Barbados would arouse their suspicions and as long as there is a remote chance of getting the leaders I’m going to take it,” replied Mr. Pauling.

As he finished speaking, Bancroft and the boys appeared.

“We’ve found the trouble with the radio!” cried Tom. “And it’s all right now. They’d cut the lead-in wire where it passed through an insulating tube and had spliced the insulation together, and on the radio compass they’d taken out a section of wire and replaced it with a bit of stick covered with the insulation where it was connected to a binding post.”

“I’ll say they’re clever rascals!” exclaimed Rawlins. “Well, we can hear any messages they send now even if we don’t want to send.”

“Personally, I’m sorry that Sam butted that man Robinson overboard,” remarked Mr. Pauling who had been deep in thought. “He’s bobbed up twice in the nick of time to save your life, Tom, and each time he’s killed a man who would have been more valuable alive than dead. Not that I blame him--I owe him a greater debt than I can ever hope to repay--but I do wish that if he’s destined to rescue you from every scrape you get into that he could do it without always destroying our evidence. I’d give a great deal to have a chance to put a few questions to that Robinson.”

“And I’ll bet my boots to a tin whistle he wouldn’t have come across with any information,” declared Rawlins. “I’ve been putting two and two together and I’ve a hunch he’s the chap who called himself a ‘Yank’ when the boys heard him talking on the tramp back in St. John. He was too blamed clever to give away anything and maybe, after all, these men are telling the truth and he was planted on the Devonshire and his friends seized the ship. That would account for their letting Robinson and a boat’s crew get away--just to board us you see. By glory, it’s such a mixed-up plot within a plot that it’s sure got me guessing.”

“Jove, that may be so,” cried Mr. Henderson. “If so, it would explain several puzzles. He may have intended to escape alone and let the rest of the crowd sink or swim with us. ’Twould have been fairly easy for him to do that--just drop over the side and be picked up by the sub at some prearranged spot--whereas a crowd of twenty-two men would have a hard job to clear out undetected.”

“Well, he dropped over all right,” chuckled the diver. “Only I’ll bet the sub wasn’t standing by to pick him up.”

“Perhaps we can solve part of the mystery when we reach Trinidad,” said Mr. Pauling. “If the Devonshire is overdue, we can be fairly sure she was seized. Whereas if she arrives with her real officers and crew, we’ll know it was all a frame-up. But we’ll owe an apology to her company in that case.”

Rawlins uttered an ejaculation and springing up rushed from the room.

“Well, I wonder what’s struck him now!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson.

“Another hunch, probably,” laughed the Commander. “He seems full of them.”

“And usually pretty near the truth at that,” put in Mr. Pauling.

Five minutes later the diver reappeared. “Some one please kick me for a blamed dub!” he exclaimed. “Here we’ve been backing and filling and talking and discussing and guessing and we might have found out the truth in a minute at any time.”

“If you’ll tell us what you’re driving at, we may understand,” said Mr. Pauling. “What’s this new discovery of yours?”

“That this bunch we’ve got on board are all blamed liars!” replied the diver. “There isn’t any such ship as the Devonshire. At least none that corresponds with their story. I’ve just gone through Lloyds’ Registry and there are only three British ships of the name. One’s a wooden bark, the other’s a little coasting steamer and the third’s a big liner.”

“By Jove!” ejaculated Mr. Henderson.

“You’d better kick me too!” laughed the Commander. “I’m ready to join your boob society at any time, Rawlins. I’d hate to have the rest of the navy hear of this. Here I’m supposed to use that registry for looking up ships and I never thought of it when the need came.”

“Well, we’re none of us infallible,” Mr. Henderson reminded him. “However, that’s one point settled. The next thing--”

At this instant a lieutenant dashed into the room and saluted. “Submarine on the starboard bow!” he announced.