Here we were marooned, shanghaied, as it were, within sight if not
call of Herndon and our friends. We had run up against professional
smugglers, of whom I had vaguely read, disguised as stewards,
deckhands, stokers, and other workers.
The only other opening to the cabin was a sort of porthole, more
for ventilation than anything else. Kennedy stuck his head through
it, but it was impossible for a man to squeeze out. There was one
of the lower decks directly before us while a bright arc light
gleamed tantalisingly over it, throwing a round circle of light
into our prison. I reflected bitterly on our shipwreck within
sight of port.
Kennedy remained silent, and I did not know what was working in his
mind. Together we made out the outline of the freighter at the next
wharf and speculated as to the location where we had left Herndon
with the huge reflector. There was no moon and it was as black as
ink in that direction, but if we could have got out I would have
trusted to luck to reach it by swimming.
Below us, from the restless water lapping on the sides of the hulk
of La Montaigne, we could now hear muffled sounds. It was a
motor-boat which had come crawling up the river front, with lights
extinguished, and had pushed a cautious nose into the slip where
our ship lay at the quay.
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