Then came a puff of white smoke, the boom of a gun, and a practice shell that raised a plume of spray a cable length in front of the schooner, and went off, making ducks and drakes for miles across the blue sea.
Ginnell rushed to the halyards himself. Chopstick Charlie, at the wheel, required no orders, and the _Tamalpais_ came round, with all her canvas spilling the wind and slatting, while the warship, stealing along now with just a ripple at her stern, came gliding past the stem of the schooner.
They were taking her name, just as a policeman takes the number of a motor car.
It was a ghastly business. No cheery voice, with the inquiry: “What’s your name and where are you bound for?” Just a silent inspection, and then a dropped boat.
Next moment a lieutenant of the American navy was coming over the side of the _Tamalpais_, to be received by Ginnell.
“That’s me name,” answered the unfortunate, who had determined on the rôle of the blustering innocent; “and who are you, to be boardin’ me like this and firing guns at me?”
“Well, of all the----cheek!” said the other, with a laugh. “A nice dance you’ve led us since we lost you in that fog.”
“Which fog?” asked the astonished Ginnell. “Fog! It’s some other ship you’re after, for I haven’t sighted a fog since leavin’ port.”
His men, who had come on board, were busy with the covering of the main hatch, and he walked forward, to superintend.
The hatch cover off, they rigged a tackle and hauled out a case of champagne; four cases of champagne they brought on deck, and then, attacking the next layer, they brought out a case of a different description. It contained a machine gun.
Under the champagne layer, the _Tamalpais_ was crammed right down to the garboard strakes with contraband of war in the form of arms and ammunition for the small South American republic that was just then kicking up a dust around its murdered president.
Ginnell saw his own position at a glance. The _Heart of Ireland_ given away to Blood and Harman for the captaincy of a gun runner, and a seized gun runner at that.
He saw now why Keene and his crew had deserted in a hurry. Chased by the warship, and running into a fog, they had slipped away in the boats, making for the coast, while the pursuer had made a dead-west run of it to clear herself of the dangerous coast waters and their rocks and shoals.