“Oh, we’ve got the heels of them,” said Hank.
“Hope so,” said the other. “Look! they’re getting sail on her.”
In the dim light the vast lug sail of the junk could be seen rising and even before it fully took the wind, she was moving.
“They’re rowing!” cried George. “Look! they’ve got the sweeps out!”
Candon looked. The fag end of a moon rising over the hills of California showed now clearly the junk putting out to sea ahead of them, the flash and movement of the sweeps, the great lubberly lateen sail being trimmed and the foam dashing from the bow.
“They’ve got us,” said Hank, “get your guns ready if it comes to boarding. Where’s yours, B. C.?” “Down in the cabin?—one sec.” He dived below. Then he came up again. “Cabin door’s bolted.”
“Whach you say?” cried Candon.
“Cabin door’s bolted, can’t get in—”
“Maybe it’s stuck,” said Candon. “Don’t bother with it, we’ve no time for fiddling, lay hold of something to bat these chaps with if they try and board. Hell! but she’s racing,—that junk.”