“Thank you—boys.”
“And now you’re all right, sir,” cried Tom Halstead, gleefully. “All you’ve got to do is to keep on breathing as deeply as you can. Mr. Moddridge, is your strength equal to bringing up an arm-chair from the after deck?”
Apparently Eben Moddridge didn’t even pause to wonder about his strength. He ran nimbly aft, then came struggling under his armful. He deposited the chair where the young skipper indicated. They raised Mr. Delavan to a seat, Hank stationing himself in front of the chair to keep the boat’s owner from pitching forward.
“Now, old fellow, you’d better kick up more speed,” advised Halstead, stepping over beside his chum. “You know, we’ve got to make the coast in record time, for several fortunes are hanging on our speed.”
Bending forward, Dawson swung the speed control wheel around generously. The “Rocket” forged ahead through the water.
“This will leave the schooner hull-down before we’ve burned much gasoline,” smiled Halstead. “Hullo, there they go about again. They realize the point, and have left off the chase.”
Joe still had the wheel, but he turned to look.
The “Rocket” was more than a mile away from the schooner when a jarring thump shook the motor boat.
In an instant Joe Dawson’s face went white. His chum looked scarcely less startled. The extra vibration ceased almost as soon as it was felt, for the engine had stopped running.
“Hank, take the wheel. The engine might start again,” called Tom Halstead, barely pausing in his chase after Joe, as the former jumped down into the engine room.