At that moment the Alerte was rounding the last bend in the river between her and the spot where the Bronx City had been run aground.
Suddenly Marchant shouted:
"She's sheered off, by thunder!"
A few seconds later Pengelly had an uninterrupted view of the next reach. Only too true was the gunner's announcement. Not only had the Bronx City got afloat; she was no longer in the river, nor in the spacious Bahia Arenas.
"That's kippered the contract," growled Marchant, who had abandoned his post for'ard and had gained the bridge. "We ought to have scuppered her. She'll report us and there'll be a swarm of light cruisers and destroyers after us in less than no time."
"She can't use her wireless," said Pengelly.
"Never said she could," retorted the gunner. "She'll speak the first ship she meets and get her to use her wireless. There'll be French cruisers waitin' for us off the Senegal and the south'ard, an' Spaniards up the coast—British destroyers, too, I guess. An' we can't bust across to South America—we ain't got enough oil."
"What do you propose, then?" asked Pengelly helplessly.
"Propose?" echoed the gunner contemptuously. "Propose—ain't you supposed to be the skipper? If you don't know what's to be done, who does? Cain, of course; you'd best ask him."
The ex-captain on his way aft heard the dialogue. He shrugged his shoulders and looked meaningly at the bo'sun.