The lights of the town, only a few in number but enough to act as beacons to the boys, came closer and closer. They could not yet discern the Speedaway ahead of them, though they knew it must be close.
“What do we do when we catch up?” Paul Bird sat up and asked. “Better lay out a plan so we’ll all do the right thing.”
Frank was once again making a short cut on the last bend above Columbia. “Well,” he said, “we shall try to get alongside. Then you two fellows go over and engage him if he shows fight, while I hold the Rocket close up, and Lanky can take the tie line with him to tie him.”
That was all there was to the plan. Just general in nature. No use, thought Frank, of crossing this particular bridge until they got to it. Time enough to do the right thing after they had caught up with their man.
“There he is!” cried Lanky excitedly, pointing to the motor boat that loomed directly in front of them as Frank made the last twist to gain ground.
Cunningham was peering back over his shoulder as the searchlight from the Rocket lighted that part of the river.
Suddenly he veered to one side; probably, thought Frank, in an effort to get to the side opposite Columbia and there beach his craft and run for it.
Lanky shot the search behind him.
“Look out!” Frank fairly screamed as he saw a tremendous obstacle loom in front of the Speedaway, less than fifteen feet away—too close to permit the helmsman to again maneuver his boat.
Up out of the darkness, totally unexpectedly, arose the great bulk of a barge, loaded and piled high with boxes and bales, the towboat on the farther side.