“Turn back—turn back!” cried Buckhart. “Dick Merriwell was carried down when you smashed my boat.”
“Turn back at once, Berger,” commanded Ditson. “By Jove! this is bad. There are the pieces of the boat, but I can’t see a sign of Merriwell.”
The débris of the wrecked boat lay floating on the orange-tinted waves, but Duncan spoke truly when he said there was no sign of Dick. Buckhart rose to his knees and stared heart sick along the wake of the launch.
“Gone!” he said. “He could swim like a fish, and we’d see something of him if he had not been injured.”
The man at the wheel brought the launch round with a sharp, sweeping curve.
“Slower, Berger,” commanded Duncan. “Here, let me have that wheel. You look after your steam. Keep your eyes open, Mike. Can you see anything of Merriwell?”
In the stern Du Boise stirred slightly and drawled:
“Didn’t you say you were going to hit the boat before we struck it, Mike? I thought you said something about a rowboat.”
“You’re dreaming!” snapped Lynch. “You didn’t hear us say anything of the sort. Did he, Berger? We didn’t see the boat, did we?”
“Not until it was too late to avoid it,” answered the bearded man, who was now monkeying with the steam valves. “I’m not running down rowboats for pleasure, although it’s a wonder the fools who row around the harbor don’t get run down oftener than they do.”