“You order?” McNulty’s eyes glittered.
“Yes!”
“You’ve forgotten the law of the sea, sir. I am the only man who gives orders on this ship. I am responsible.”
“When we touch port, sir——”
“Yes, when we do,” McNulty rasped anticipating his words. “My chest is always packed!” he added.
Presently the steward returned from the radio shack. The Chinook was lying in Salmon Cove.
Salmon Cove!
What queer tricks fate played at times. This was the point selected to land their cargo.
With the storm blowing her shoreward and the engines turning over at full speed the Crayton was breaking her best previous record. McNulty was grim as he crossed the twelve mile limit. In time the grim walls of the coast loomed ahead. Even in the darkness the line of surf stood out sharply and white. Somewhere there was a break. They felt the ground swell now—the lift and fall was different.
“Peril of the sea!” muttered Pritt. “I hope we strike. The Coast Guarder is there to rescue us. I hope we strike!”