The galley of the “Restless” being provided with food of kinds that could be speedily prepared, it was not long before Jeff had an appetizing meal laid in the cabin aft. Then Joe came up to the wheel while his chum partook of a quick meal in the motor room. That done, Tom took his place at the helm once more, while Joe Dawson and Jeff Randolph ate.
Joe’s jaw was squarely set when he came on deck the next time, though this fact did not hide his look of concern.
“You’d sooner cripple the motors than give up the race before you have to?” the young engineer inquired, in a low voice.
“There’s only one thing we’ll slow up for,” responded Halstead, looking at his companion. “That will be if you think there’s danger of a gasoline explosion.”
“No! there’s no danger of that,” sighed Joe. “But the motors won’t hold out much longer at this speed. We’re going at least three miles an hour faster than the engines were ever built to go.”
“What’s our speed?” asked Henry Tremaine.
“Just about thirty miles an hour, sir,” Joe Dawson answered. “I’ve followed orders and am crowding every possible revolution without regard for anything but danger to life.”
“You’re not running the ladies’ lives into danger, then?”
“No, sir.”
“Good! That’s all I care about,” ordered the charter-man. “When this day is over I’ll install newer and better engines for you, if these are hurt in any way, and I’ll pay you for whatever time the boat may be laid up for repairs.”