“Perfectly,” answered Tom.
“I can pilot anywhere inside of fifty miles,” boasted Bill. “Garvey Rocks, you said?”
“Yes.”
Bill took his place at the wheel. Tom released the shore tackle. Then he was down in his seat firmly planted. The Beulah made a leap like some marine leviathan bounding out of captivity.
Tom had never had much experience with a launch, but it was sufficient, with Bill’s constantly shouted directions, to enable him to run the engine. The thought crossed his mind that he would have the indignant ire of Bert Aldrich to face on his return. It flitted quickly as the peril of the Olivia and his loyal girl friend aboard of the steamer recurred to him with intensified urgency.
One plunge, obliterating all shore outlines, seemed to whirl them into a vortex of battling, unrestrained elements. The first splash of spray, dense and blinding, covered Bill like a veil. A great wave sent the craft hurtling along like an arrow. Tom realized that they were bent on a desperately dangerous venture.
“We can’t line the shore; we must get out further from land,” Bill shouted back.
Bill, once past danger of sandbars and breakers, had turned the course due southeast. On every calculation of knowledge of locality and distances, this it seemed would be sure to bring them in direct range of Garvey Rocks. For half an hour they drove ahead, neither speaking a word. Then Tom fixed his eye on some moving lights shorewards. They inspired a sudden thought, and setting the lever at steady speed he crept forward on hands and knees along the slippery deck.
“Bill!” he shouted hoarsely.
“Hello—what’s the row?” challenged Bill, amazed that Tom had deserted his post of duty.