Then we caught the breeze again. It was puffy and uncertain,—the forerunner of a squall.
"We'll say good-bye to 'em now," exclaimed Spike, gleefully.
"B-But we won't sh-shake that yacht s-s-so easy,—l-look at 'em!
H-Hoisting a j-j-jib, d-d-d-dod r-rabbit 'em!"
We had forgotten the other boats, in our excitement over the dory.
Spike looked back over his shoulder.
"This seems like persecution to me," he remarked. "One trouble after another. No chance to put any more sail on this boat," he added.
"And no sail to put," said I.
"Look! They're setting a spinnaker, too! Now they'll come!"
We saw the long boom run out, waver, and settle into place. Then there bulged out upon it a great mass of canvas that made the jib look like a handkerchief. The yacht simply tore through the water. Any hope of keeping ahead of her for ten minutes was absurd. She was really trying to catch us now, and she was doing it. She grew in size every second, an overwhelming cloud of canvas,—a fine sight on the darkening water.
"T-T-Tack!" exclaimed Spook, "she c-can't s-sail into the wind with that s-spinnaker!"
"What's the good?" growled Spike, "she can sail all round this boat, just with her mainsail and jib."