Cursing under his breath, the pirate called to the gunner to come on the bridge. Marchant, his right shoulder swathed in bandages, complied, grumbling and wincing as every step shot a sharp pain through the injured part.
"There's another vessel," announced Pengelly. "She's coming this way, I think. What's to be done?"
"Done?" repeated the gunner. "Why, collar the pair of 'em. We'll make a fine haul, I'll swear."
"But if she's a warship?" objected the other.
"Is it likely?" rejoined Marchant. "What would a warship be doing on this part of the coast? Seein' as Cain reported us sunk—say what you like, that chap's got a head on 'im—there'll be none lookin' for us. Where's that glass of yours?"
Steadying the telescope on the bridge-rail, the gunner, groaning with the effort, bent his head and applied his eye to the instrument.
"Tramp of sorts," he announced. "She's flying no colours. Odds are the Bronx City'll tip her the wink. That being so, we'll have to send her to the bottom.... Yes, hang me, if she ain't closing."
For the next minute or so the gunner kept his eye glued to the telescope. Suddenly he dropped the glass and sprang to his feet.
"She's a British cruiser, blast her!" he shouted. "Put about and leg it, Pengelly. If she spots us, it's all UP!"
Without waiting for Pengelly to give the order, the quartermaster put the wheel hard down. Round swept the Alerte, listing heavily to port as she swung to starboard.