"All hands fall in in the waist!" shouted Cain.
The deck hands trooped to the place indicated, with the exception of Davidge and Cross, who, acting under orders, were standing by the valve actuating gear of the ballast tanks.
Deliberately, Cain thrust the telegraph indicators to stop, gave one quick glance at the vessel in pursuit and descended from the bridge.
By this time the Alerte was over the bar and about half a mile from the land-locked shore. The Canvey, none too sure of the entrance, had slowed down, the leadsman sounding as she cautiously smelt her way in.
As soon as the men whose duty lay in the engine-room came on deck, Cain made a slight imperceptible movement with his hand. Unconcernedly, the bo'sun stepped to the wake of the conning-tower and took three steps down the ladder. There he waited.
"Now, you treacherous, mutineering swine!" thundered Cain. "I'll give you one minute to get your lifebelts. You're to choose between being eaten by sharks or hanging by your necks in a British prison."
Before the astounded men could realise the significance of their captain's words, Cain made for the only open hatchway. There he stopped, his eyes roving whimsically over the dumbfounded men, a supercilious smile lurking in his heavy bulldog features.
Marchant fumbled for his automatic. But for his injured shoulder he might have achieved his object. The pistol cracked, the bullet mushrooming on the armour-plated conning tower.
"Forty-five seconds more!" announced Cain, in cold, level tones.
The next instant Captain Cain disappeared from view. The conning-tower hatch descended with a metallic clang.