“We can beat her” he said, with a contemptuous accent on the “her.”
“That's your business,” I returned, and walked aft to where Mrs. Knapp was standing, half-way up the steps from the cabin.
“There is Darby Meeker,” I said, getting sight of him on the pursuing tug.
“Can they catch us?” inquired Mrs. Knapp, the lines tightening about her mouth.
“I think not—the captain says not. I should say that we were holding our own now.”
At this moment a tall, massive figure stepped from the pilot-house of the pursuing tug and shook its fists at us. At the sight of the man my heart stood still. The huge bulk, the wolf-face, just distinguishable, distorted, dark with rage and passion, stopped the blood, and I felt a faintness as of dropping from a height. With a gasp, life and voice came back to me.
“Doddridge Knapp!” I cried.
Mrs. Knapp looked at me in alarm, and grasped the rail.
“No! no!” she exclaimed. “A thousand times no! That is Elijah Lane!”
I gazed at her in wonder. Not Doddridge Knapp! Had my eyes played me false?