"You're all right?" he asked.
"Quite," was the reply.
Presently the river widened considerably. The launch was now within half a mile of her destination, but, according to the chart, there was a submerged bank on the starboard hand, and fairly deep water close to the right bank.
Without warning the impetus of the launch was arrested. Peter was flung against the wheel; Olive, losing her balance, cannoned into him, and was saved from a violent concussion against the coaming by the fact that the native coxswain had got there first, and had been winded by his impact with the woodwork. The engineer, who had crawled under the fore-deck to replenish the contents of a grease-cup, was flung along the narrow floor by the motor and finished up by butting the petrol tank.
"Aground!" exclaimed Mostyn, stating what was an obvious and accomplished fact.
The engine was racing furiously. Jerking the reverse lever into the astern position Peter hoped that the action of the powerful propeller would release the launch from her predicament. It was in vain. The motor was racing as fast as ever, but there was no flow of water past the boat's side to indicate that the propeller was going astern.
"Blades stripped, by Jove!" ejaculated Mostyn.
He switched off the ignition, and, in the relative quietude that succeeded the machine-gun-like explosions of the exhaust, took stock of the situation.
"Quite all right, thank you," replied the girl, in answer to Peter's question. The reply set Mostyn wondering whether in any circumstances Olive would say otherwise.
By this time the native coxswain was sitting up. Although he was not taking nourishment he was gently caressing the bruised part of his anatomy, but otherwise betraying no interest in things.