Fast as he was traveling, the pursuers increased their speed until they seemed likely to overtake him.
“Is this more of Vasquez’s deadly work?” groaned Hal. “Will he never stop until he has destroyed me?”
Cold perspiration oozed out on the boy’s forehead.
He broke into a swift run.
At this gait, he calculated that less than three minutes would bring him to the English brig’s wharf.
As he ran, he took a flying look over his shoulder.
Hardly more than two hundred feet to the rear were the pursuers, their sandaled feet moving without noise.
“I can beat them,” thrilled Hal, putting on an even better spurt of speed.
Just ahead was the water-front street.
Here, a swift turn to the right, and a speedy dash would carry him to the wharf he sought.