By the time Bob had been divested of his coat, and had had his shirt sleeve rolled up, Gaines, Clackett, and Carl were in the periscope room, sitting on the low stools that served for chairs. Dick was back, also, with the basin of water and the sponge, and Ysabel began dressing the wounded arm.
“Great guns, Bob!” exclaimed Gaines. “Are you hurt?”
“A scratch, nothing more,” Bob answered. “The bullet simply left a mark and then went on. I brought you up here, friends,” the young motorist continued, “to tell you where we are. We’re anchored, broadside on the current, in the middle of the Izaral River, our periscope ball some three or four feet above the surface of the water. We are going to stay here and wait for something to happen.”
“What’s to happen?” asked Clackett.
“Well, we’ve got news that a motor launch is coming down the Izaral loaded with prisoners. If possible, we must intercept the launch. Dick says we’ve a chance in ten of winning out, but we can’t neglect even so slim a chance as that, as it happens to be our only one.”
Gaines, Clackett, and Carl were even more deeply puzzled than they had been.
“Who are the prisoners?” inquired Gaines.
“Coleman, for one—the man we came to rescue. Then there are Jordan, Speake, and, I hope, Tirzal.”
“Jordan and those with him were really captured?” demanded Clackett.
“Yes.”