“Oh,” Ken said.
With an effort he forced his brain to work. “You’ve sailed out of New York Harbor,” he said. “How long would it take us to be towed out to deep water—in case we are leaving the harbor and heading for the ocean.”
“Depends on which way the tide’s running,” Sandy said, “and what kind of a tug they’ve got on the job. From what we saw on the pier earlier, I’d say all three of the barges are being towed at once—anyway, they all had the same cargo. That’s quite a load. Ought to take four or five hours, I’d guess.”
“What are our chances of signaling one of the other barges from here?” Ken asked.
“Small,” Sandy answered briefly. “It would have been possible shortly after we left the pier,” he went on, “but the towlines are lengthened pretty quickly, especially in dirty weather. We may already be a couple of hundred feet from the barge, and falling behind fast. And there’s nothing back of us,” he reminded Ken. “This was the last barge tied up at the pier—counting from the seaward end of the line.”
“I know.” Suddenly Ken heaved himself up again to a sitting position. All his aches and his weariness were temporarily forgotten in the desperate need for action. “So in that case,” he said, “we’d better see if we can’t get out of this cabin while there’s still a chance of yelling for help. If the next barge is only two hundred yards away—”
But Sandy had interrupted him. “Just how had you figured on doing that?” he demanded.
“I hadn’t—yet,” Ken admitted. “But together we ought to be able to think of something. We’ve got two brains between us—and I doubt if Cal has more than half a one himself.”
“My brain’s not working tonight,” Sandy mumbled.
Ken heard the dead note of despair in his voice. “Look,” he said hastily, “how much of the time will we be alone in here? What are Cal’s duties on this tub?”