There was a heavy swell on—an “old say,” Barney called it. It was seen that the Fox was rolling a great deal.
“They are sure to hug the coast pretty close,” Merriwell decided. “I don’t believe Lord Stanford cares about getting far from land in that boat. The Greyhound will sail anywhere he can go.”
It became a steady sail to the south, and Frank cracked on every stitch of canvas, hoping to come up with the Fox hand-over-hand. In this he was disappointed, although it was plain that they gained somewhat.
The afternoon sun sank lower and lower. Toots was appointed steward, and prepared a meal from the supply of provisions on board.
At sunset the Fox was seen rounding a distant point of land and making into a bay.
“I rather think she means to stop there to-night,” said Frank.
He examined the chart and decided that it was Half-moon Bay.
“If the wind holds,” he declared, “we will come upon them there to-night.”
But as the sun sank in a reddish haze that seemed like a conflagration far out on the open ocean, the wind died entirely and the Greyhound lay becalmed, rolling helplessly on the “old sea.”
“But it’s a good bit av a brase we’ll be afther havin’ before mawnin’,” Barney declared. “Oi nivver saw th’ sun go down thot way when it didn’t poipe up lather on.”