Flynn seemed to hesitate. At that moment a fear entered his heart that Merriwell would escape in some manner and keep his vow. “It would be easy to finish you,” said the ruffian, reaching into his hip pocket and pulling out a revolver. “I could fill you full of lead. Perhaps I’d better!” He lifted the weapon, but Steve caught his arm with a furious exclamation. “None of that!” shouted the sailor, hoarsely. “You can set the boy adrift, but you can’t murder him before my eyes!” “It’s murder, anyway,” came huskily from Walter Wallace, who, reckless fellow though he was, was now sick at heart. “I am against it. I didn’t agree to take a hand in anything like this.” “Shut up!” howled Flynn, who seemed half demented by his fierce desire to destroy Frank Merriwell. “You came along of your own free will, and it won’t be good for you if you squawk now!” “I didn’t come along to have any hand in such business as this. I wash my hands of it. When the time comes, I’ll swear who did the job. That’s what I’ll do!” “You will, eh?” shouted the man with the revolver, now raging like a maniac. “What do you think of that, Steve? This young fool will give us away! He threatens us! He was ready enough to come with us——” “Because I did not like Frank Merriwell,” said Wallace; “but I didn’t suppose you were going to do anything more than take this yacht, which you declared was rightfully yours, anyway. Had I known just what sort of a fellow you were, you can be sure I would not have run into this scrape.” Wallace was a rascal at heart, but he had no relish for anything like murder, and he was weakening. The thought that he might be concerned in a murder had taken the courage out of him, and now he hoped to force Flynn to give over his bloodthirsty scheme. Already, in his mind, Wallace was thinking that, if he succeeded, Merriwell would owe him his life. Of course Frank would be grateful, and Wallace would not be held responsible for his share in stealing the yacht. But the Belfast boy did not know the character of the man with whom he was dealing. A thorough ruffian at heart, Flynn did not pause to count the cost of any rash act. He did not think that some time in the future, if Frank Merriwell was drowned that night, he might be tried for murder and convicted. He did not have imagination enough to fancy himself standing at the bar, securely ironed and charged with the dastardly crime he contemplated committing at that moment. Some men commit crimes from lack of imagination; some commit them because they have too much imagination. “Hold this line, Steve!” snarled Flynn, thrusting the end of the painter into the hand of the man at the wheel. Steve obeyed. Flynn advanced straight on Wallace, revolver in hand. “Now,” he grated, lifting the weapon, “you do just as I say, or by the skies! I’ll shoot you in your tracks!” Wallace realized that the ruffian meant what he said. “March aft!”