Assuring himself, as he supposed, that he was unobserved, the steward crept softly from door to door, and, opening each, peered into the several staterooms for the purpose of seeing if any were by chance occupied. Confident that this was not the case, he went back to the foot of the companionway and whistled shrilly. Evidently this was a signal, for at once a heavy step crossed the deck and descended to the cabin. Terry, round-eyed with bewilderment at these proceedings, peered out from behind the curtains and discovered that the newcomer was none other than the watchman, Bill Bronson. “Eet ees alla quiet, Bill,” the steward declared, reassuringly, as big Bill glanced suspiciously about. “Not a soula here. We ees alla right.” Bill growled in reply, and stepped at once to the center of the room, shoving aside a heavy chart table which stood there. Beneath the table was a square of matting which seemed but lightly tacked down, for with one twitch the watchman ripped it off the floor, revealing a trapdoor beneath. “Dere she ees, Bill,” exclaimed the Italian exultantly. He stooped and raised the trap hastily. The burly watchman squeezed himself into the hole with much grunting and profanity, and, having gotten his head below the level of the floor, began at once to hand out packages, each wrapped carefully in black enamel cloth. “Work quick, Tonio. No tellin’ when them fellers’ll git back. The boat’s right under the quarter.” The steward’s reply was to gather several packages in his arms and hastily ascend to the deck. Terry, meanwhile, had been doing what he called “some tall thinking.” He knew that something remarkably shady was in progress. He could not guess what was in the packages, but that it was something valuable he did not doubt. The treacherous steward and watchman were robbing the _Calypso’s_ commander, or her owners. Quick as a flash, when Antonio had disappeared, Terry darted out from behind the curtain and slammed down the trapdoor, shooting the strong bolt at once into place, thus securing the trap firmly. Big Bill was a prisoner. The muffled sounds of the watchman’s voice could not reach the deck, but Terry reached it almost at a single bound. Antonio’s figure was faintly visible as he leaned over the rail, tugging at the painter of the small boat, which had become fouled. The packages had been laid on the deck while he was thus engaged. Terry’s mind worked quickly, and the moment his feet touched the deck he saw his chance for overcoming the second river pirate. He lowered his head and charged across the deck like a bolt from a cannon. His head caught Antonio just below the waistband, and, although the shock well-nigh dislocated his neck and sent him flat upon the deck, it also drove the light body of the astonished steward flying overboard, where he landed, frog fashion, in the dirty dock water.