No sooner had Nick Carter announced his intention than he saw it impressed the men in front of him. The dread of the sharpshooter is proverbial. When a man knows he may possibly be the next target for a man who shoots straight, and that the marksman will go after one man, and one only, it takes much of the fire of battle out of him, unless he is of phenomenal courage. In this critical situation, the detective had hit upon a shrewd course. It was much better than making a rush, blazing away indiscriminately. Now each of the seven men facing him wondered if he might be the one to be shot first. That ugly-looking automatic pistol, with a number of cartridges ready to be sent flying at the enemy, was calculated to disturb the equanimity of any ordinary person. There was a nervous shifting of feet among the sailors, and the detective’s jaw set firmly as he saw that his bluff was likely to be effective. It was hardly a bluff, either, for he and Mike Corrigan would both shoot on the instant if there were any move by the enemy. Moreover, each had picked out two men. If Kennedy had not been unusually quick-witted, and if the sailors had not had a respect and love for the owner of the yacht, Mademoiselle Valeria--known in the Hotel Amsterdam as the Baroness Latour--which amounted to worship, it is likely that Nick Carter would have had things all his own way. But Kennedy knew his men, and he was aware of the fact that a reminder of the young woman by whom they had been employed in many shady transactions in the past, and who had always paid them well, would make them forget pretty nearly everything else. Quick action was imperative. He saw that they were wavering, and that unless something was done quickly to bring them up, they might actually yield themselves to these two men who were holding them down with as much confidence as if they had been a dozen. “Remember mademoiselle!” Kennedy yelled this slogan with the suddenness of a rifle shot. The effect was remarkable. On the instant, the whole seven leaped toward the detective and Mike Corrigan. As they did so, the two automatic pistols barked once--twice--almost together. The two men aimed at by Nick Carter both dropped. If Mike Corrigan’s aim had been as good as the detective’s, they might have won. But the porter’s hand was shaky, and both of his bullets missed. He managed to shoot them at a rock some distance away, where they flattened and fell into the sand. “Fire, men!” shouted Kennedy. But Carter was not waiting for a bullet from the other side. For the third time he pulled his trigger. Then, taking his gun by the barrel, he used the heavy stock for a club and sprang at Kennedy, just as a shot came from the enemy and Mike Corrigan sank to the ground with a groan of agony.