Chapter VII: A Dash in the Dark

I enjoyed that ride into the darkness that was, by now, fast settling over Casco Bay; at least, I relished the first part of it. And it was in momentary forgetfulness of my dislike of my companion that I said cheerfully:

“Somethin’ like, eh?”

“Uh!” grunted Pawlinson; and I resolved to make no further overtures.

Some more minutes elapsed in this dark dash--straight away we were making it, and we flew no lights. Then Pawlinson swirled us to a tangent.

“You’re not going past Orr’s Island, then?” I cried; but I might have saved my breath for all the attention he paid me.

Perhaps three more minutes it was that we ran thus. Then he whirled on me with a short:

“Off!” I was bewildered, for speed had certainly been the desideratum up to now.

“Off, I said!” he ripped out vexedly. “_I’m_ giving orders here, remember.”

I threw out the switch, and we slumped down to wabbling in the light sea that was running.

Even in the gloom I could see his features working. Then I followed his gaze out over the water toward where Peak’s Island showed darker against the night sky.

And more showed in that direction than that; for two trim masts were swaying slightly against the starred background.

“The schooner!” said I.

“Right--for once.” Pawlinson came out of his silence. “And now maybe you can see why I didn’t run right past the island, eh?”

“But surely speed boats are plentiful enough nowadays,” I answered. “There couldn’t have been much to arouse suspicion, even if we had shot directly alongside. The lad said it was shortest.”

“It’s easy to see you don’t know Carl Stroth. Look!”

The steady, bright-eyed glare of a powerful searchlight ate into the night. It came from the schooner’s fore crosstrees.

“Get it through your noddle at last?”

“Yes,” said I humbly enough.

For some minutes the searchlight played over the waters; but it was noticeable that it confined its attentions to a small arc; and that arc, fortunately or unfortunately, did not include that portion of the bay where lay our inert, low-lying craft.

But its radiance suddenly found and rested upon something well ahead of us--a something that made both Pawlinson and myself let out an oath.

“The police launch!”

“But it’s headed back to town from Trawly’s Rock!” I cried.

“Well, and why not?” he snapped. “Even a policeman can sometimes fall to the fact that there’s such a thing in this world as a bunk.”

“You think, then,” said I, “that they have found out the wire was bogus?”

“I think that when they got out to that desolate chunk of rock and didn’t find me there, that possibly something like that did enter their heads.”

“But----”

“But Stroth is right this minute chuckling happily; for, by the time that launch gets back to headquarters for new orders, he’ll be hull down, seaward.”

“But he’s waiting for that gasoline.”

“Oh, he is, is he? Take a squint at the schooner again, and see if he’ll have to wait long.”

Much as I hated the fellow, I couldn’t but admire his perception. I followed his pointing, and discerned that a small lighter had been brought alongside the vessel, and, by the light of the lanterns that had been hung to the rigging at the rail, I could see men transferring barrel after barrel to the schooner’s hold.

“The gasoline!” I cried.

“Probably,” came the reply.

“Then Hallins’ man who got aboard to-day was wrong as to the time they could get it?”

“I have known mistakes, such slight ones, to be made before,” snarled Pawlinson.

“But we can beat ’em to it yet,” I said, with enthusiasm.

“How? What are you driving at?”

“There’s a good twenty-five-mile-an-hour gait bottled up in this little tube,” I explained. “And here we are in a triangle. The police launch is headed cityward, but ahead of us, eh?”

“Right enough.”

“Then out there lies the schooner at another corner of the triangle, and to our port side.”

“Right again.” Pawlinson’s sarcasm was, for the moment, absent.

“I take it you are planning force from the first. You asked as to my gun, you know.”

“Yes, yes. Go ahead, man!”

“Then,” I cried, “what’s the matter with us uncorking every bit of ginger there is in this hydro--shoot past the schooner--overtake the patrol launch--give ’em the news, and----”

“You think we could make it before Stroth’d get wise? He’s got a good engine himself, remember; and, should he tumble, he’d have a head start on the launch.”

“But, being auxiliary,” I interrupted, frantic for action, “he is bound to be as much slower than the police boat than it is to our hydro. Besides, he’s not to up-anchor or cut. It’ll work!” I cried enthusiastically as I fished in my pocket for my jackknife and turned back quickly toward the taffrail.

“Here, what’re you up to?” snapped Pawlinson.

“Why, we’ve got to cast that blamed punt adrift now,” I answered sharply. “We’ve got to be clear of everything.”

Ice came into the voice that met my warmth.

“Start the engine. We’ll keep the punt.”

“But, man----”

“Start the engine.”

There was that in Pawlinson I’ve met in few men; for I had that machine barking the next instant--and I’m not an oversweet-tempered individual myself, as I have intimated.

I threw in the clutch, and we fairly jumped out of the water when she began to “plane.”

There was no shunning the island now on Pawlinson’s part.

Instead, he headed almost directly for it--a course that was calculated to bring us within a furlong of the anchored schooner on our way to intercept the patrol launch, which was pointed, as near as we could judge, directly cityward.

The exact angle was a thing of estimation to a nicety; but, with the speed we were soon attaining, it certainly looked as if it would work.

The wind had fallen flat, as it often does between the day and night breezes, and this helped. So we cut a swath of boiling spume over an unrippled mirror which heaved only to a slight swell.

“Now, man”--Pawlinson let me into his thoughts--“once clear of the schooner’s stern, and we’ve got ’em; no matter which way the cat jumps.”

“Yes,” I agreed enthusiastically. “By that time they wouldn’t have a chance to clear before we’d have the patrol launch veered for her.”

“And now for it!” His tone was calm and collected enough; but I read tenseness in it, nevertheless.

As for myself, I was fairly rigid with the moment, for it was the crucial one. We were about to pass the schooner.

Then came the sickening disgust.

Out from the fore crosstrees blazed the white glare of the searchlight again.

This time we were in for it. The rattling exhaust of our engine had told its story; or, at least, it had told enough to excite sufficient curiosity for a look at us.

The light oscillated once or twice in search; then it steadied, and our eyes blinked in its glare. Everything about us sprang into daylight, and the brass cylinder heads before me fairly glittered.

I imagined I could hear the wielder of the light chuckle at his find; but I didn’t have to imagine the imprecation that Pawlinson hissed venomously. I have seldom heard such fervor; but I seconded it heartily.

“All up!” I groaned; for it took no clairvoyant to fathom that the alarm had been sounded.

Even above the sound of our engine we heard a sharp command given, and the lines were cast from the lighter alongside. Then came some quick blows on metal.

“Make that out?” queried Pawlinson shortly.

“Cutting the cable,” I muttered. “They know the game. Her engine’s going already. Where’s the police boat?”

“The fools in her smell something up; but, being fools, they’ve stopped to see what it is.”

Sure enough, off there about a quarter mile, the lights of the patrol stood fixed, showing that either her engine had been shut off or was running free from load.

“At any rate,” I growled, “she’s too far off to help, anyway. That schooner’s certainly fast under power. Once started, she’s a good match for the launch, and besides----”

“Stop the engine!”

I whirled in amazement at the deadly animosity that came into Pawlinson’s voice; and the searchlight--which had kept us steadily in its radiance--showed a countenance an equal match to the tone. Then a smile came over his face as he corrected:

“Throw her into the neutral!”

I did so, and our screw stopped.

“Now, haul up that punt’s painter and get into the tub.”

“Get into the punt?” I cried, mystified.

“Into the punt, I said, didn’t I?” shrilled the man with me. I can scarcely call him Pawlinson. I have never seen rage mount much higher as he busied himself setting the steering wheel to a certain spoke. The gear was a good one, and would hold to any setting of rudder.

“But why?” I ventured further; then regretted the words, and forthwith did as he had ordered.

I brought the punt alongside, sprang into it, and stood steadying, awaiting what would come next.

But I snatched a second for a peek over my shoulder.

The schooner was almost upon us by now; for, of course, she was headed for the nearest way out of the bay; and that way happened to be our way.

But I was brought sharply back to Pawlinson.

“And now,” said he, “I think we’ve got something that’ll work.”

As he said this, he, too, clambered from the speed boat into the punt along with me.

Now, mind you, the engine was still running in the neutral.

“Reach over there!” he ordered. “Full speed ahead! You can reach the lever from where you stand. You know best how to do it. You start her, and the rudder’ll do the rest.”

Then it was, on that very instant, that there flashed over me a light of understanding as brilliant as the calcium that still played about us.

“You don’t mean it, man?” I cried; for I remembered now the strong metal stringers of the hydroplane’s structure; the weight of her engine; the impact that it meant at a twenty-five-mile-an-hour clip. The boat lay low in the water; and the hole she’d make in that yacht-planked schooner would be well along, and even below the water line.

“I do mean it!” he yelled. “And now’s the time! About amidships she’ll catch it, I think. We’ll watch it from the punt.”

I felt myself boil as would any civilized man.

“And I think _not_!” The words sounded as from some other throat than my own. “Sink that schooner with all the men in her, and----”

“And what?” I could feel his breath hot with wrath as he brought his face pugnaciously close to mine.

“The girl!” I cried.

“What do you know about her?”

“Enough to know that I’ll not----”

I don’t remember the end of that sentence; for he suddenly whirled his broad back upon me, and, fending my interference off thus, reached over into the speed boat’s cockpit and threw back the starting lever.

But the steering wheel was aft, a side steerer attached to the coaming--the port coaming at that, and right to my hand.

I grabbed that wheel, and flung it around desperately, in the second I had before the hydroplane shot from us.

She didn’t veer far from her course of intended destruction; but it was enough, and I had the inner glow of satisfaction for the one instant that was allowed me before I met him as he turned and gripped me in deadly embrace.

In an iron clutch I felt myself borne bodily aloft. I struck the water breathless, and I cannot swim.