"Pengelly'll part brass rags with every one on board afore very long, sir," whispered Barnard.
The Alerte was now ploughing across the bay. The sandy island enclosing the mouth of the anchorage effectually concealed the open sea from sight, although in a short time the entrance would afford an almost interrupted view of the offing. Still, Pengelly gave no indication of the course he proposed to pursue.
Descending from the bridge, the gunner gathered several of the hands round him. Ignoring the new captain entirely, Marchant pointed out the additional risks they were running by reason of the escape of the Bronx City.
"Cap'n Cain's our man," declared one of the hands.
"No, he isn't," retorted the gunner. "He ought to be, I admit. That horse-marine on the bridge there ain't good for nothin'. But if Cain gets the upper hand, then some of us are in for a rough time. No, our best plan is to go in chase of the Bronx City and overhaul her afore she gets a chance to speak another craft."
"And then——?" asked one of the men.
"Then," continued the gunner, "we'll nab her, take all necessary precautions with her crew, abandon the Alerte and carry the Bronx City across to Brazil. There's no need to bring her into port. We'll scuttle her and take to the boats, pitch a yarn to the British Consul an' get sent home as shipwrecked mariners. How's that?"
The suggestion met with acclamation. Marchant reascended the bridge ladder.
"This ain't a one-man show, Mr. Pengelly," he said meaningly. "It's the wish of the hands that we recapture the Bronx City afore she lets the cat out of the bag."
"Very good," agreed Pengelly.