The Deerfoot rocked and plunged in the swell made by the steamer, which, spreading out like a fan from its bow, ran tumbling and foaming along the rocky shores, keeping pace with the headlong charge of the boat, and trying to engulf everything in its path. One small catboat that was tied to a rickety, home-made landing, after a couple of dives capsized, as if it were a giant flapjack under which a housewife had slid her turning iron.
“They’re gaining!” exclaimed Chester, who was closely watching the progress of the racers. “Do you mean to let them get away, Alvin?”
“Mr. Calvert will answer that question.”
“I do so by advising that you neither gain nor lose for the present.”
The Captain gave the launch a little more power, and it became clear to all that the pursuer was picking up the ground, or rather water, that she had lost. Then for several minutes no difference in speed was perceptible. A space of a furlong separated the two when they shot past the point of land bearing the odd name of Thomas Great Toe, which is on the western side of the lower part of Westport, some two miles above Goose Neck Passage. Here the water is a mile in width, and is filled with islands of varying sizes, until the large bay to the northward is reached.
The Water Witch persisted in hugging the eastern shore, while her pursuer kept well out, as if to make sure of having plenty of room in which to pass her, when the chance came. But all the same the chance did not come. It was soon seen that the fugitive was drawing away from her pursuer. Mike Murphy fumed, but held his peace.
“It’s mesilf that hasn’t any inflooence here,” he reflected, “as I obsarved to mysilf whin dad and mither agreed that a thundering big licking was due me.”
“Can you overhaul her?” asked Detective Calvert.
“Easiest thing in the world; I can shoot past her as if she were lying still.”
“Well, don’t do it.”