"They sure did," Paddy chirruped, as though it was quite a lark.
"We haven't landed yet?"
"We made one stop. Just a few hours, I guess, to get some grub aboard. I can't make out much of their lingo, but from what I've heard I believe we're headed for one of the coast towns where we can get a doctor. That shot of yours hit the old bird in the shoulder; he's scared half to death he's going to croak."
"If he only does," Peter Gross prayed fervently under his breath. He asked Paddy: "How long have we been here?"
"About fourteen hours, I'd say on a guess. We turned back a ways, made a stop, and then headed this way. I'm not much of a sailor, but I believe we've kept a straight course since. At least the roll of the launch hasn't changed any."
"Fourteen hours," Peter Gross mused. "It might be toward Coti, or it might be the other way. Have they fed you?"
"Not a blankety-blanked thing. Not even sea-water. I'm so dry I could swallow the Mississippi."
Peter Gross made no comment. "Tell me what happened," he directed.
Paddy, who was sitting cross-legged, tried to shuffle into a more comfortable position. In doing so he bumped his head against the top of their prison. "Ouch!" he exclaimed feelingly.
"You're not hurt?" Peter Gross asked quickly.