"It's too late," advised Tom. "They'll be here in a minute."
Urged on by the lusty arms of the Brazilian sailors, the boat, containing several officers, neared the floating submarine rapidly.
"Ahoy there!" called an officer in the bow, his accent betraying his unfamiliarity with the English language. "What craft are you?"
"Submarine, Advance, from New Jersey," replied Tom. "Who are you?"
"Brazilian cruiser San Paulo," was the reply. "Where are you bound?" went on the officer.
"On pleasure," answered Captain Weston quickly. "But why do you ask? We are an American ship, sailing under American colors. Is this Brazilian territory?"
"This island is—yes," came back the answer, and by this time the small boat was at the side of the submarine. Before the adventurers could have protested, had they a desire to do so, there were a number of officers and the crew of the San Paulo on the small deck.
With a flourish, the officer who had done the questioning drew his sword. Waving it in the air with a dramatic gesture, he exclaimed:
"You're our prisoners! Resist and my men shall cut you down like dogs! Seize them, men!"
The sailors sprang forward, each one station-
