"I'd like to know why?" Tommy turned to him. "Why? What right have we to come and start such a business?" "What right have we to crowd her out of the ocean?" Tommy answered with another question. "What right have they to blow us up?--or steal a girl?--or counterfeit our money?--or darn near shoot my finger off and then laugh at me? To hell with rights! We've got more than that scoundrel has, if we haven't any!" Gates got up with an oath. "Yes," he said, "and shoot out my searchlight! No, Professor, I'd say the shooting's already begun. But they won't stand for too much fooling, not if I know anything!" "Oh, well," Monsieur sighed, "give me the gun." "Give him Miss Nancy," Tommy laughed. "Now, fellows, suppose a couple of us entrench on top of the cabin, to get the advantage of altitude--the superiority of position, as it were--and command their decks!" "You'll need a fair protection, sir, as they'll be shooting from the portholes," Gates said. "And we carn't fire back at the portholes because of the lady!" "Righto! But the man at their wheel's our meat, and anyone else who comes to take his place. Minus a steersman they're helpless; and then, Gates, if we can run alongside and batten down (is that what you call it?) their hatches, they're ours." "Suppose they send the Princess out, herself, to steer?" Monsieur asked. The suggestion gave me a turn. "Still, they may not think of that," he continued, "and our two shooters may command their decks quite easily. It is good. If a man comes out to steer you will shoot him till he runs downstairs again, then we go aboard and sail home. Yes, it is a good plan." "Shoot him till he runs downstairs!" Tommy gasped. "What d'you think we're going to do--just spank him with lead?" "I'll say that professor is in a clarss by himself, sir," Gates turned to me, chuckling. The next half hour was a busy one. Our sailors, singing with happiness, brought up from the cuddy rolls of extra sails that were lowered overboard for a good wetting, then mauled into a neat rifle pit on the cabin roof--as snug as I'd want anywhere, and quite able to stop high-power bullets. Gates then showed another bit of generalship that called anew for Monsieur's nods of approval. Since our own helmsman would be as much exposed as the man on the _Orchid_--whom we intended to "shoot until he ran downstairs"--the mate brought up some line, bent it several times around the wheel drum, passed it through newly fastened blocks, and let it run into the cockpit. By this arrangement he could lie on the floor, as safe as you please, and steer according to orders sung up by the old skipper who, stationed below with a shaving mirror--suggesting a trench periscope--would take his bearings without showing any portion of his face. It was a nice piece of work.