But the launch in front was no laggard. Whether she increased her speed at sight of the light which was seemingly hustling down the river after her, or whether she simply held her former rate, she was going at a tremendous pace. Soon leaving Long Ledge on their right, the pursuer shot into the broader waters of Montsweag Bay, only to find the white light seemingly as far off as ever. Possibly the pursuers had gained something, but not enough to be perceptible.
“They have seen us,” said Chester, from his station at the front, “and are putting in their best licks. We must be going the limit.”
“That is twenty-four miles, but we’re not making it, Chester.”
The second mate pulled down his cap more snugly, for the motionless air was turned into a gale, and looked back.
“What do you mean? The Deerfoot is eating up water.”
“That may be, but she isn’t getting there as she ought to,” insisted Alvin, who, of course, was more familiar with his boat. “Something is the matter with her. She seems to be doing her best, and yet she lags.”
“Do you think it because of her trouble yesterday?”
“It must be, but I was sure she was shipshape when we left her last night. See whether we are gaining.”
Chester spent several minutes in studying the position and progress of that white light, which was gliding with swift smoothness over the water, and hugging the bank all the while. When he spoke it was doubtfully.
“Perhaps we have gained a little, say about six inches.”