For excellent reasons Manada is keeping in the background as much as possible. But he finds the luxurious cabin of the Semiramis much to his liking, and he smokes and dreams of “Cuba Libre” while the Semiramis steams down the bay and out upon the bosom of the Atlantic, and when he goes on deck, wrapped in the long semi-military cloak which effectually conceals his person, the sight which greets his eyes fills him with apprehension, though challenging his liveliest interest.
The battle of steam is well under way. The America is less than a dozen lengths astern and presents a beautiful sight to the people on the Semiramis. The glistening white hull plows the water at a speed which dashes the spray high in air from the delicately carved cut-water, and the triple funnels vomit great clouds of inky smoke. Manada’s eyes rove to the United States flag whipping out in the breeze and he mutters a favorite malediction as he thinks of the insurgent arms stored in the hold of the Semiramis.
But as he grows aware that the yacht of his strange friend is drawing away from the American man-of-war he becomes the incarnation of suppressed excitement. And when Van Zandt claps him on the shoulder and shouts in his ear, “Well, senor, what do you think of the Semiramis?” the Cuban shouts back enthusiastically: “El Semiramis es un diablo verdadero!”
Without the change of a muscle in his weather-beaten face, Capt. Sam Beals paces the bridge of the Semiramis, while the exciting duel of steam and steel continues, not a gesture or ejaculation indicating that the beautiful yacht is literally steaming away from the cruiser—a vessel heralded far and wide as the speediest craft among all the navies of the world.
But if the chief officer is apparently undisturbed, the same cannot be said of any other person on board. The excitement of the race has roused the owner of the yacht from his cold reserve, and as with sparkling eye and eager step he hurries from the engine-room to the quarterdeck, noting with each return the slowly but steadily lengthening space of open water that separates the two vessels, Louise Hathaway mentally retracts her decision that Phillip Van Zandt is cold and unsympathetic.
As for Miss Hathaway herself, she is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the race. Securely sheltered from the fierce rush of wind which the tremendous speed of the Semiramis causes to sweep over the deck, she makes an attractive picture as she watches the race. The svelte form is outlined in a gown of navy blue; the beautiful face is framed in a golden aureole of wavy locks; the matchless blue eyes glisten with unwonted excitement, and a delicate color tints her cheek. It is not strange that Van Zandt divides his time between the race and his fair passenger.
Even pale, stern-faced Cyrus Felton has for the nonce became stirred by the infectious excitement, and with a zest that he has not manifested for years he watches the unavailing efforts of the warship to overhaul the pleasure craft.
“Isn’t there more and blacker smoke pouring from the America’s stacks?” inquires Miss Hathaway, as the owner of the Semiramis returns from a brief interview with the engineer, with the cheery assurance that the engines are running as smoothly as if the yacht were moving at quarter-speed.
“She is surely making more smoke and, if I mistake not, more speed,” answers Van Zandt, a shade of anxiety replacing his almost boyish enthusiasm. “Mr. Beals, what think you of it?” turning to the executive officer; “is she gaining on us?”
“She has just put on her forced draught, sir, and is now running at her top speed. She is gaining, now, but—”