Suddenly came a crash of heavy glass; a girl screamed.  One of the saloon dead-lights had crashed out, the thick glass rattling down the steel hull to the sea.  There was another crash and a yellow glow flared into a bright blaze, illuminating the hull of the shrouded vessel.

“Now they’ve done it!” cried Oddington.  “They have soaked a table-cloth with kerosene; it’s all off now!  So much for Captain Merrithew’s scheme.  I—­” A voice rang from the bridge.

“Everybody down, quick!” The warning was none too soon, for a second later a rain of lead from the El Toro swept through the top of the funnel.  Then with straining engines the gunboat made a swinging detour, with the intention, plain to every one, of heading off the freighter.

The firing was incessant now, and every one of the Howland party, as well as the crew, grovelled flat on the deck and heard lead whistling above.  Virginia, glancing at the bridge in an agony of terror, saw the Captain crouching just a trifle, but still at his post.  One man, a quarter-master, knelt at the wheel.  But she missed her father, and a great dread filled her mind.  It was but momentary, however, for Mr. Howland joined the party behind the deck-house.

“Oh father!” cried the girl, “I feared you were hurt.  Why doesn’t Captain Merrithew stop the boat and leave the bridge?  Surely his life and those of his men there are of more value than your interests in Blanco!”

“I told him to stop, to throw ourselves upon the protection of our flag,” and Mr. Howland laughed nervously.  “But it was no use.  I believe I reared a Frankenstein monster when I selected him as the man to land our guns.  Frankly he as much as told me to mind my business.  He’s in a fighting mood now; his jaws are set like steel-traps—­I know his kind.  And do you know, Virginia, he will land us and the guns, too.  You wait!”

The El Toro had stopped firing, and was bending all energies to heading off the freighter; it looked as though she would do it, too, for she had once been a private yacht and had evidently lost none of her speed.  It was a mighty race.  The Tampico was by no means a slouchy craft, and she ripped her way through the waters, clawing for the harbor mouth and San Blanco City like a thing possessed.  Swinging on a tactical semi-circle, the trim little flag-ship flew like a white ghost, tearing the waters, curling them up on deck until they ran out of the scuppers.  She unlimbered another gun and the leaden hail swept away the Tampico’s port lifeboat, crumpling the stanchions and davits like thin wire.

“Their marksmanship is bad, as usual,” said Mr. Howland, trembling nevertheless, in suppressed excitement.