THE SMUGGLER AT BAY.
But it didn’t look much as if Mr. Anderson’s words were to be verified.
Dr. Chalmers came on deck, as he had been doing from time to time to
learn what was going on. He was told of the startling turn that affairs
had suddenly taken, and Nat asked him if it was important that Mr.
Jenkins should be set ashore speedily.
“I think not,” was the reply. “Thanks to your medicine chest, I have the
antiseptics I require for treating the wound, and, so far, he is still
asleep, which is an encouraging sign. Keep on, my boy, and get that
rascal if you can.”
He went below once more to watch his patient, and the others
concentrated their minds on the chase. Ding-dong came on deck for a
breathing spell and was placed in possession of the facts.
“If w-w-w-we only had wur-wur-wireless on board, we’d soon stop their
little ger-ger-game,” he groaned.
“We’ll have it just as soon as possible,” Nat assured him. “All this has
shown me what a useful thing it would be to have an installation made
right on board.”
The black motor boat zipped through the water like a streak. So fine
were her lines that she left hardly any wake, except a churned up streak
of white that marked where her powerful propellers were biting into the
water and driving her onward at twelve hundred revolutions a minute.
“The only chance we stand is if she breaks down,” muttered Nat, as he
watched the rapidly receding outlines of the craft.
“And we stand as good a chance of doing that as she, to judge by past
performances,” grunted Joe.
“I’m afraid it looks that way, Joe; still, we can only keep on and hope
for the best. We won’t give up the chase now, whatever happens.”
“That’s the talk,” said Mr. Anderson approvingly; “they must be driving
her cruelly to keep up that pace, and machinery is only machinery and
something may give.”
“Well, I hope it does soon,” commented Joe, “or she’ll be out of sight.”
This looked as if it was entirely likely to happen. Diminished to a mere
speck, the speedy craft made the _Nomad_, fast as she was for her
sturdy, sea-going build, look like a stone barge chasing a canoe.
“If it would come on to blow, there would be a different tale to tell,”
said Nat, “but it’s ‘set fair’ by the look of it and we’ve nothing to
hope from in that quarter.”
Then what they had feared happened. The fast craft vanished over the
horizon. They were hopelessly outclassed.
“Beaten to a frazzle,” choked out Joe indignantly, “and by a miserable
opium-smuggling, piratical old thief at that.”
“We’ll keep right on,” repeated Nat, and he grimly steered the same
course he had been holding when their speedy quarry vanished from view.
Half an hour later he was to be mighty glad he did. Up over the rim of
the horizon came the form of the fleeing black craft. Clearly, it had
been compelled to slow up from some cause or other.
“Hurray!” yelled the excitable Joe. “We’ve got a chance now!”
“Have they broken down?” asked Mr. Anderson anxiously.
“Looks that way. They wouldn’t slow up after having given us such a
clean pair of heels,” said Nat, his voice aquiver with suppressed
excitement, “but she’s an awful long way off yet, and may get under way
again long before we catch up with her.”
Joe looked sober again. The chase was pursued in almost total silence.
As they neared her it could be seen that the black craft was moving, but
slowly.
Nat fairly held his breath as he watched her. What had happened on
board? Through the glasses Joe could see the four men on her
gesticulating excitedly and working over the engine. Presently clouds of
blue smoke and sharp reports like those of a rapid-fire gun burst from
the crippled craft.
“Just keep on that way fifteen minutes longer and we’ve got you, my
hearties,” exclaimed the sailor.
“What’s up, do you think?” asked Joe.
“Carburetor troubles. Too rich a mixture. Look at that smoke; it’s
coming out as black as ink now.”
Nat said nothing, but his flushed cheeks and trembling hands spoke for
him. It looked for once as if the tortoise had caught up with the hare
in real life.
“What are your plans if we do catch up with her?” asked Joe in a subdued
tone as they bore down on the black craft.
“Call on them to give up their passenger. If they don’t, we’ll have to
board her.”
“But we’ve no guns.”
“Man alive, we don’t need them.”
“But they are just as strong a party as we are, and they are probably
armed, and we know that one, at least, doesn’t hesitate to shoot on
provocation.”
“Well, we’ll pack monkey-wrenches in our hip pockets. If trouble comes
we’ll use them, but I’m thinking that old Israel Harley, from all
accounts, will give up his passenger without trouble. He’s been too
badly singed by the law to want to come near it again.”
“Maybe there’s something in that,” rejoined Joe resignedly. “I’ll go
below and pick out a few likely-looking wrenches.”
He turned and went down to the engine-room, where he related to
Ding-dong all that had happened in the last exciting moments.
In the meantime the _Nomad_ had crept up to the black craft, and those
on the bridge could now see that the hood above the engine was raised
and that an old, rugged-looking man in rough clothes with three younger
men were working over the motor.
“They’ve broken down, sure enough,” chuckled Nat exultingly as the
_Nomad_ drew nearer.
“Our turn at last,” chortled Joe, as he came on deck and slipped a
wrench to Nat and another to the sailor. Mr. Anderson said that, in case
of a tussle, he preferred to rely on his fists.
The old man looked up in apparent surprise as the _Nomad_ came alongside
the thin, sharp motor boat.
“That’s old Iz,” whispered the sailor to Nat. But Nat hardly heard him,
for he was face to face with the surprise of his life.
The motor boat was an open one. There was no cabin. All was open except
the engine space, which was forward under the high bow and hooded in.
All was plainly exposed to the view from the _Nomad’s_ bridge, which was
considerably higher than the low, swift craft she had overhauled.
There was old Israel, there were his three companions, but of Minory
nothing was to be seen. He had vanished as completely as if he had
evaporated into air!