Phil’s pulse quickened. The situation was growing acute. “If it comes to a fight,” he said excitedly, “we are two to one,” pointing in the direction of the British cruiser, “but a fight here would plunge three great nations into war.” “It’s only a bluff, sir,” O’Neil sized up the situation sagely. “Those fellows are the cleverest dodgers you ever laid eyes on. They can fight all right, there’s no denying that fact, but their cleverest dodge is to play politics. I’ve seen them do it against the ‘chinks’ in China, and against the dagos in South America. When a Herzovinian officer goes too far the king with his right hand gives him a hook in the solar plexus, and then, to soften the medicine, with his left hangs the order of the red tailed eagle around his neck.” Phil laughed nervously. “What do we do to our officers who overstep the bounds of international etiquette?” he asked, thinking of the predicament in which Commander Tazewell found himself suddenly involved. “That’s easy to answer, sir,” O’Neil replied readily enough. “He gets the solar plexus blow from the man at the ‘top,’ and unless he’s popular with a few big newspaper editors, usually dies an official death. Now Admiral Benham, when he belayed that revolution in Brazil some years ago, was on the point of getting the ‘hook,’ when a friend of his gave him a great ‘pipe off’ in the New York papers. He made the admiral a Farragut and an Abraham Lincoln spliced together. The ‘hook’ was quietly stowed away for future use.” As the “Sitka’s” whale-boat was steered alongside, the foreign boat shoved off. Phil peered eagerly through the darkness. He saw an erect figure in white in the stern sheets. “Looks for all the world like that Herzovinian count,” he exclaimed excitedly. O’Neil strained his eyes to see, but the boat was rapidly being swallowed into the night. Phil noted the two big cargo canoes alongside the schooner, while he saw a score or more of figures moving about on the deck above him. He was on the point of climbing the ladder when a voice from above in broken English called to him to halt. “No one is permit to enter,” the man said. Phil saw that it was a Herzovinian sailor. “I would like to speak to your officer, if there is one there,” Phil said haughtily. “What do you want?” was asked gruffly. “This vessel is chartered by the Herzovinian government, and it is not permitted to visit.” Phil’s anger blazed into flame. For the fraction of a second he was on the point of leading his men up to forcibly capture the schooner, but the cool, restraining hand of O’Neil, an old friend frequently encountered by this impetuous youth, brought second thoughts to ward off a rash act. “Steady, sir,” O’Neil whispered. “There’s a big flag flapping up there. Can’t tell for sure, but I can guess that it’s the man-of-war flag. We’ve made them show their hand; don’t spoil it by getting yourself in trouble.”