“Why doesn’t she shoot?”
As Code spoke a puff of white smoke thrust out from the blunt bows of the cutter, and the ball ricochetted from wave-top to wave-top to fall half a mile astern of the schooner.
“Out of range now, an’ if the wind holds she’ll be out of sight by nightfall,” said Pete, who was 159 moved to great excitement and enthusiasm by the contest. “Wonder who she is?”
He plunged down the companionway to the cabin and emerged a moment later with Code’s powerful glasses.
But Code did not need any glasses to tell him who she was. His eye had picked out her points before this, and the only thing that interested him was the fact that her wireless was down.
It was the mysterious schooner.
He had never seen her equal for traveling, and he knew that she must be making a good fourteen knots, for the cutter was capable of twelve.
She had reached her closest point of contact with Code’s vessel and had begun to bear away when Pete leveled his glasses. It was on Schofield’s tongue to reveal the identity of the pursued when Ellinwood yelled:
“Good Heavens! Skipper! She has Charming Lass printed in new gold letters under her counter!”
“What?”