“He’s blowing along,” said Jude; “but he’s feeling our pace. Not more than holding his own—and he had the cheek to tell me once his old tub could sail circles round the Sarah!”
Satan at the wheel cocked his eye over his shoulder at the Natchez, spat, and refixed his gaze on the binnacle.
“Where’s your eyes?” asked Satan.
“In my head,” replied Jude. “What you gettin’ at?”
“He’s overhaulin’ us. Wonder he ain’t aboard! Time you was gettin’ that anchor up and handlin’ the jib.”
Ratcliffe was about to share the blame when, remembering the incident of the coffee, he checked himself and held his peace.
Satan was right. The Natchez had the pace of the Sarah, at least under present wind conditions and under plain sail. The two boats had evidently never been matched before, and the gloom of the Tylers might have been gaged by their silence. Satan did not want to run away from Cleary; but he had promised him a “lead,” and this impudent display of the better sailing qualities of the Natchez was like a derisive underscore to the promise.
Cleary, in this matter at least, was a very unwise man. He should have checked the speed of his boat by mishandling her or even trailing a drogher. Instead of that he held on, determined, evidently, to take the shine out of the Sarah and pour derision on the head of Satan.
Ratcliffe, little as he knew of boat-craft, felt the situation. Being wise, he said nothing.
Suddenly Jude spoke.