“And now, we’re going to chase that fugitive in,” uttered Halstead, grimly. “By George! Look at the way that drab boat is beginning to travel. Joe, we can’t let her lose us in this fashion.” 129
As the “Fulton” passed out hull down, and then finally vanished on the southern horizon, the chase after the drab seventy-footer became lively and exciting.
“Can you make out Dalton aboard of her?” asked Powell Seaton, as Tom stood forward, leaning against the edge of the forward deck-house, the marine glass as fast to his eyes as though glued there.
“No, sir. If Dalton is aboard, he’s keeping out of sight in the cabin.”
“Did you see, when the drab boat was more head-on, whether Lemly was at the wheel?”
“The man at the wheel wasn’t Lemly, sir, though I believe that fellow is on board as the actual captain,” Halstead answered.
“Humph! Is the Drab going to get away from us?” questioned Hank, wonderingly. “My, look at her bow cut water!”
“She’s a faster boat than I thought,” Tom responded. “But we don’t mean to let her get away. Joe, how are we going on speed?”
“I couldn’t get another revolution out of the twin shafts without overheating everything,” Dawson replied, seriously. “Honestly, Tom, if this speed doesn’t suit, I’m afraid we’ll have to make the best of it.”
“Then don’t lose a single inch by bad steering, Hank,” Halstead directed, looking around 130 at his helmsman. “Whenever you want relief, let me know.”