“Yes, I’d like to see him, too,” agreed Ned.
The night passed without incident, save that word went about the ship now and then that the engine-room force was working desperately to make repairs which would enable the transport to proceed, however lamely.
But when the sun rose, a red ball of fire in the morning, it saw the Sherman still drifting.
“We’re in for some change of weather,” remarked a sailor in the hearing of the chums.
“A storm?” asked Jerry.
“Can’t say, but looks like it.”
And the disabled troopship kept on drifting—drifting—drifting.