were only staring stupidly at the approaching boat, and Joe Dance was
still fumbling with his knife, while Grote had disappeared.

"Oh, if I was only there!" cried Tom Fillot.

"They might have saved that schooner," groaned Mark. "Oh, Tom, Tom, is
there nothing we can do?"

"No, sir; only look on. Hah! at last."

"Yes, he's sawing at the cable with his knife."

"And it's blunt as hoop iron," groaned Tom.

"They're alongside. It's all over. Was there ever such luck?"

"Cut, you beggar, cut!" yelled Tom Fillot.

"Too late--too late!" said Mark bitterly, as he saw Dance still hacking
at the cable, and the boat pulled alongside, while the bow man threw in
his oar, and seized a boathook as he rose in his place.

In another minute the Americans would have been on deck, and the
schooner taken; but, just as Mark Vandean's heart sank heavy as lead,
Grote suddenly appeared with an axe in his hand, while his words of
warning came clearly to where they stood looking on.

"Stand aside!"

Then--_Chop_!

One dull, heavy blow, and the hawser, cut closely through where it
passed over the bows, dropped with a splash into the water and
disappeared.

The little party at the cabin window sent out a cheer and then a groan,
for the bow man had hooked on, and the Americans began to climb up,
their leader having his hands on the bulwarks, and sprang aboard, when
something black, which proved to be Taters' fist, struck him in the
face, and he fell back.

Another's head appeared above the side, and there was another blow and a
splash.

Almost simultaneously Grote struck at another man with a capstan bar,
and to avoid the blow, the man ducked his head, lost his hold, and, less
fortunate than Mark had been, was hurled with a tremendous splash into
the water, in company with the second man, while another got his head up
in time to receive a crack which sent him also backward into the sea.

The man holding on loosed his hold to save his companions, who were
swimming; and as the Nautiluses at the cabin window breathlessly watched
and saw them picked up, they became as much interested in the fate of
one of the party as if he had been a friend.

"Get an oar over," cried Mark. "Scull your boat to that man; he's going
down."

"The muddle-head!" cried Tom Fillot. "Can't he scull?"

No doubt they were hard upon the man, who was doing his best. He had
helped two men into the boat--no easy task when they are half-stunned,
and