Behind them trailed the schooner, now a bare third of a mile astern, and gaining visibly.
“I’m not going to say a word to hurry you, Joe,” he remarked, dropping below again. “I know you’re working to save even seconds.”
“Ain’t I just, though!” gritted Dawson, as he turned.
“Eb,” demanded Delavan, of his friend, “you’ve simply got to tell me how the stock market is going.”
“I—I—er—haven’t had the least idea for more than forty hours,” replied Mr. Moddridge, embarrassed.
“Hey, there,” called Hank, officiously, from the wheel, “just at the present moment I’m skipper here, and boss. My orders are that no Wall Street slang be talked on board until after the steward has found a chance to serve something to eat. Mr. Delavan, be glad, sir, that you are able to get some of your breath.”
“Are the rascals gaining on us?” was the owner’s next question, as he endeavored to turn himself around in the chair for a look astern.
“Not much,” replied Mr. Moddridge. “Besides, in a moment or two more the boat’s engine will be doing its duty again. The engineer has his repair work almost finished.”
Francis Delavan smiled good-humoredly, though he did not by any means believe this reassuring information.
The schooner was less than an eighth of a mile away when Joe Dawson made one more effort to adjust the substitute valve.