“Full speed on the return?” called Joe, from the doorway of the motor room.
“Yes,” nodded Captain Tom. “But look out for vibration. Our sick man has had his skull cracked.” 34
By the time the yacht had gone scooting for more than a mile over the waves, Captain Halstead, left hand on the wheel, turned to Hilton.
“Did you hear how our sick man came to be hurt, sir?”
“I didn’t hear of it until a couple of hours after it happened,” replied Hilton. “I understand that Mr. Clodis fell down the stairs leading to the main saloon, and was picked up unconscious. That was about all the word that was given out on board.”
Captain Tom nodded, then gave his whole attention to making Lonely Island as speedily as possible. There was no land in sight, and the trip back was a long one. Yet the young skipper had his bearings perfectly.
They were still some eight miles off Lonely Island when Hilton roused himself at sight of a low-hulled, black schooner scudding north under a big spread of canvas.
“You’re going to pass close to that boat, aren’t you, Captain?” asked the bridge deck passenger.
“Yes, sir; pretty close.”
“As I understand it, you’re going to land at an island some miles off the coast, whereas I wish to reach the mainland at the earliest possible moment, and catch a railway train. So, Captain, if you’ll signal that schooner and put 35 me aboard, I shall feel under sufficient obligation to hand you another ten-dollar bill.”