On land they could have separated and hidden successfully. Here at sea the
wireless was an inescapable net. Their only hope was to carry on.
Cunningham might pull them through. For, having his own hide to consider,
he would bring to bear upon the adventure all his formidable ingenuity.

At eleven the commotion subsided magically and the men vanished below, but
at four-thirty they swarmed the port bow, silently if interestedly. If
they talked at all it was in a whispering undertone.

The mutinous revellers formed a group of their own. They appeared to have
been roughly handled by the Cleighs. The attitude was humble, the
expression worriedly sorrowful. Why hadn't they beat a retreat? The
psychology of their madness escaped them utterly. There was one grain of
luck--they hadn't killed young Cleigh. What fool had swung that bottle?
Not one of them could recall.

The engines of the Wanderer stopped, and she rolled lazily in the
billowing brass, waiting.

Out of the blinding topaz of the sou'west nosed a black object, illusory.
It appeared to ride neither wind nor water.

From the bridge Cleigh eyed this object dourly, and with a swollen heart
he glanced from time to time at the crates and casings stacked below. He
knew that he would never set eyes upon any of these treasures again. When
they were lowered over the side that would be the end of them. Cunningham
might be telling the truth as to his intentions; but he was promising
something that was not conceivably possible, any more than it was possible
to play at piracy and not get hurt.