At four o'clock, by general reckoning, they were mid-way between island
and continent. They were all wide awake, too weary and miserable to
sleep. Suddenly a fog-horn smote the oppressive gloom. It drew near.
A huge blotch crossed their bows. They could feel it rather than see
it. They heard some order given in a foreign language, and De Sylva
whispered:
"The _Sao Geronimo_!"
"The wot-ah?" demanded Coke, who was standing beside him.
"The cruiser!"
Coke listened. He could distinguish the half-speed beating of twin
screws. He knew at once that the ex-President must have recognized the
warship as she passed the creek, but, by some accident, had failed to
mention her name during the long hours that had sped in the meantime.
The sinister specter passed and the launch crept on. Everyone on board
was breathless with suspense. Faces were shrouded by night and the
fog, but some gasped and others mumbled prayers. One of the wounded
soldiers shouted in delirium, and a coat was thrust over his head with
brutal force. The fog-horn blared again, two cables' lengths distant.
They were saved, for the moment!
In a little while, perhaps twenty minutes, they heard another siren.
It sounded a different note, a quaintly harsh blend of discords.
Whatsoever ship this might be, it was not the _Sao Geronimo_.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230