THE DASHING STERN CHASE
NOT a single objection did the man of nerves offer. Ordinarily he might
have jumped with fear at the proposal to go at fast speed through the
fog. Though the mist was already lifting a good deal, as it had done on
the day before, there was still enough of a curtain ahead to make it
more than just risky to go rushing along.
In the white bank ahead the racing boat was already lost to sight.
Captain Tom raised his hand to pull the cord of the auto whistle.
“If I show ’em where I am, though,” he thought, at once, “the man
handling that other craft will know enough to swing off onto another
course. He can leave me behind easily enough.”
The auto whistle, therefore, did not sound. Captain Tom understood
fully the risk he was taking in “going it blind”—and fast, too—right
on this pathway of Long Island navigation. But he made up his mind that
he would very soon begin to sound his whistle, whether he sighted the
other craft or not.
“If they haven’t changed their course I’ll soon be in sight of them,”
the young skipper reflected, anxiously. “Oh, that this fog lifts soon!”
Having guessed the other boat’s course, Tom could follow it only by
compass, as any other method would be sure to lead him astray.
Both boats’ engines were equipped with the silent exhaust. While not
absolutely noiseless, these exhausts run so quietly that a boat’s
presence at any considerable distance cannot be detected through them.
One thing was certain. At present the fog was lifting rapidly. All
would soon be well if another deep bank of mist did not roll in off the
sea.
Jed, watching the gradual going of the fog, was straining his eyes for
all he was worth for the first glimpse of that racing craft. Engineer
Joe had not further increased the “Rocket’s” speed, for Tom, if he was
getting somewhat off the course of the other boat, did not want to be
too far away when the lifting of the white curtain should show him the
enemy.
“Hist!” The sharp summons caused Tom Halstead quickly to raise his
glance from the compass. Jed Prentiss, standing amidships, for he had
run back, was pointing over the port bow. Tom could have yelled with
delight, for off there, in the edge of the bank, now some eight hundred
feet distant, was a low, indistinct line that could hardly be other
than the racing boat.
“Ask Joe to kick out just a trifle more speed, not much,” muttered
Captain Halstead, as Jed, his eyes shining, moved nearer.
Under the new impulse the “Rocket” stole up on that vague line, which
now soon resolved itself into the hull of the racing craft.
By this time the chase was discovered from the other motor boat. There
was a splurge ahead; the hull dimmed down to the former indistinct
line. After a few moments the racing craft was out of sight again.
“Crowd on every foot of speed you can, Joe,” was the word Jed passed
from the young captain. Dawson, crouching beside his motor, was
watching every revolution of the engine that he was now spurring.
And now the fog began to lift rapidly. A thousand feet ahead, driving
northeast, the racing craft could be made out. She was running a few
miles away from the coast and nearly parallel with it.
During the last few minutes Eben Moddridge had been strangely silent,
for him. Even now, as he stepped up beside the wheel, he was far less
nervous than might have been expected.
“Can you overtake that other boat?” he inquired.
“I’ve got to,” came Captain Tom’s dogged reply, as he kept his gaze
sharply ahead.
“She seems like a very fast craft.”
“She’s faster than this boat,” replied Halstead, briefly.
“Good heavens! Then she will show us a clean pair of heels,” quivered
Mr. Moddridge.
“That’s not so certain, sir.”
Tom was so sparing of his words, at this crisis in the sea race, that
Mr. Delavan’s friend felt himself entitled to further explanation.
“You say she’s faster, but intimate we may catch her,” muttered Mr.
Moddridge. “How can that be?”
“Motor engines sometimes go back on a fellow at the worst moment,”
Captain Tom explained. “That may happen to the other fellow. He may
have to slow down, or even shut off speed altogether.”
“But that might happen to us, too,” objected Mr. Moddridge.
“It might, but there are few engineers on motor boats that I’d back
against Joe Dawson,” Halstead continued. “Then again, Mr. Moddridge,
the fellow who is steering the boat ahead doesn’t handle his wheel as
slickly as he might. By the most careful steering I hope to gain some
on him.”
So rapidly was the fog lifting that the skippers of the two boats could
now see the ocean for a half mile on either side, ahead or astern. The
racing craft, after a few minutes, put on still another burst of speed.
“Ask Joe if he has every bit crowded on?” called Captain Tom. Jed
called down into the engine room, then reported back:
“Joe says he may get a little more speed out of the engine, but not
much. We’re pretty near up to the mark.”
So Tom Halstead, whitening a bit at the report, setting his teeth
harder, devoted his whole energies to trying to steer a straighter
course than did the boat ahead.
“There’s some kind of a rumpus on the stranger,” called Jed. “Look at
that fellow rushing for the hood forward.”
Plainly there was some excitement out of the usual on board the
stranger. Jed, snatching up a pair of marine glasses, swiftly reported:
“Someone is trying to fight his way out of the hood, and the others are
trying to force him back. Whee! It looks as though someone had just
hurled something out overboard from the hood.”
“Did you see anything strike the water?” demanded Captain Tom.
“It looked so, but it’s a big distance to see a small object, even
through the glass.”
“Keep your eye on where you saw that something go overboard,” directed
Captain Tom Halstead. “Try to pilot me to that spot. It may be a
message—from Mr. Delavan.”
It was a difficult task to scan the water so closely. But Jed did his
best, and, after a few moments, called back excitedly:
“Better slow down your speed, captain. I think I see something dancing
on the water. It’s bobbing up and down—something.”
Jed Prentiss seemed almost to have his eyes glued to the marine
glasses, so intently did he watch.
“Half a point to port, captain,” he shouted, presently. “Headway, only.
Joe, can you leave the engine to bring me a hand-net while I keep my
eye on that thing bobbing on the water?”
Dawson leaped up from the engine room, going swiftly in search of the
desired net.
“Half a point more to port, captain,” called Jed. “Steady—so! Thank
you, old fellow”—as Joe handed him the net. Eben Moddridge had now
hurried to the port rail as the boat drifted up alongside the thing
that Prentiss was watching. It proved to be a leather wallet, floating
on the waves. So neatly did Jed pilot that, soon, he was able to lean
over the rail, make a deft swoop with the net, and——
“I’ve got it!” he shouted.
Captain Tom Halstead instantly gave speed ahead through the bridge
controls, trying to gain as swiftly as he could the very considerable
distance that had been lost. “It’s Frank’s wallet—his own. There’s his
monogram on it,” cried Eben Moddridge, his voice quaking.
“See if there is any message inside,” shouted Tom, still keeping his
gaze on that hull ahead, while Joe bounded below to nurse his motor on
to better performances.
Mr. Moddridge’s fingers trembled so in trying to open the soaked wallet
that Jed took it from him.
“Your friend’s money,” reported Prentiss, taking out a compact mass of
banknotes and passing them to Mr. Moddridge. “Here are some cards, too,
and that’s all.”
“See if anything is written on any of the cards,” Tom directed.
“Nothing on any of them,” Jed quickly reported.
“It’s Frank Delavan’s wallet, though,” cried Eben Moddridge.
“And Mr. Delavan is aboard that boat, a prisoner,” returned Tom
Halstead. “The best he could do was to throw the wallet overboard in
the hope that we’d see it and know where to look for him. There was
only a small chance of our seeing it, but Jed did, and we won. Confound
’em! They seem to be gaining on us!”
As it became more evident that the stranger was gradually pulling
further ahead of the “Rocket,” Eben Moddridge’s face began to twitch,
his breath coming shorter and faster.
“M-m-must we lose?” he faltered.
“No race is lost until it is finished,” Captain Tom replied, tersely.
“But you can’t overtake that boat?”
“It’s a speedier craft than ours, but I’ll follow ’em, even if they get
hull down on the horizon,” Halstead retorted. “I’ll keep to the course
if they beat us out of sight. I won’t give up while we’ve any gasoline
left.”
The stranger was now a mile ahead. Tom figured that, in an hour, the
other boat’s lead would be very likely increased by four or five miles
more. Surely enough, two or three miles more were gained in the next
thirty minutes. Then—
“Hurrah!” shouted Tom Halstead. “Oh, if it’s only as good as it looks!”
“What is it?” queried Eben Moddridge, brokenly, not even rising from
his chair.
“See how the other craft is slowing her speed. It looks as though her
engine had given out at just the right time for us.”
Indeed, the stranger seemed rapidly coming down to bare headway. Then
she barely drifted. The “Rocket,” eating up the miles, swiftly gained
on the other motor boat.
“It looks like a real enough break in their engine,” reported Jed, his
eyes once more at the glasses. “They’re rushing about under the hood. I
can see that much. They seem dreadfully bothered about the engine.”
Tom had steered the “Rocket,” by this time, within a half mile of the
stranger’s pointed stern.
“_Now_, we’ll run down upon them!” glowed the young skipper.
“What will you do when you _do_ get alongside?” asked Eben Moddridge,
tremulously.