The position into which the Libertad had drifted was stern-out, so that the cutter was on her quarter, and to the side farthest from Tom’s hiding place.
In that position, totally unsuspicious of his presence, no one on El Libertad was paying attention to his side of the river mouth.
Two ideas, two courses of action, sprang into Tom’s mind. The first was this: he recalled that when the trio had lain, tied hand and foot on the floor of the Libertad’s cabin, the drip-drip of the gasoline from a leaky carbureter gasket had become very noticeable.
He recalled that Mr. Coleson had mentioned it to Senor Ortiga, that night when they had returned from their fruitless hunt, and said he must fix it. The idea Tom had was that if he could manage to get on board, unobserved, and loosen the carbureter or destroy it, the white boat would be powerless to escape. But the men were all congregated at the stern, all except the steersman, up in the cubby where the wheel was located, at the forward end of the cabin.
The second idea grew from the first: in the bow was the main gasoline tank; a pipe line of copper ran along, close under the edge of the cabin flooring, and up forward there was a petcock in the line, so that the flow of what Mr. Coleson, in his English fashion, called “petrol” could be cut off in case of a break in the line. “Now,” decided Tom, “if I could get aboard and turn that cock without my action being discovered, the engine would stop as soon as it sucked the compression tank dry—about a tenth of a mile. Then they’d have to surrender or be starved out, and we could signal for help, and certainly pick them off. Maybe, with Cliff, I could plan to get Nicky free first! I’m going to try it!”
Tom made as little noise as he possibly could, climbing out of his retreat; if he was discovered, he must be shot!
But they were all busy listening to some plea or argument from the lieutenant. Tom made his dip into the water without apparently attracting the least bit of notice.
He waded softly, as far as he could, then with deft, quiet strokes, drew steadily, if slowly, closer—closer—closer!
If only they all kept out of range below the cockpit and cabin coaming! Evidently, in spite of the danger to Nicky, none of the desperate crew cared for a chance shot from the cutter. They stayed low.
Tom reached the side of the almost inert white hull; with only a slight drift taking her gradually past the cutter, she was evidently being permitted to lie still until the drift got her out of the way of the cutter, or far enough into open water so that she could be turned and steered in a forward run.