Miles slipped from under them in the night, and Frank, no other thought in mind save the goal at Coville as quickly as it could be made, urged the Rocket on its way, having every foot of speed the engine could give.
No word passed between the boys. The two forward gasped now and then as a rush of air suddenly shot down their open mouths.
Ahead of them loomed a broad raft of logs, and Paul turned his head involuntarily to signal or to call to Frank.
But the searchlight had picked it up and Frank held the Rocket far enough over to make around one end of the raft without lessing speed.
Was there any chance that the doctor may have failed, in the excitement at the hospital, in his own sincere and earnest solicitation over the condition of Mr. Allen—was there any chance that he might have forgotten to telephone to Coville so that the man might have the drug ready?
Could he make it down there and then, returning against the strong current of the Harrapin River and the wind as well, be back in Columbia in time to save his father?
Would this race be a futile one? Was the fast-moving specter of Death to win this contest?
Frank thought of all the kind things his father had said and done, of the counsel his father had given to him. He thought too of his mother and Helen rushing on toward Columbia, now nearly there, and of what they would have to face if he, Frank, did not get the drug back in time.
He was facing the greatest strain he had ever faced—racing his motor boat in an effort to save the life of his father—himself, the son, trusted with the one mission which meant so much to the family, the life of his father!
Frank’s involuntary effort was to push on the wheel, to urge, to force the Rocket to increased speed, to make it fly. What was there that could be done to give her greater speed? Surely, this was not all he could get from this boat!