“It looks like a real enough break in their engine,” reported Jed, his eyes once more at the glasses. “They’re rushing about under the hood. I can see that much. They seem dreadfully bothered about the engine.”
Tom had steered the “Rocket,” by this time, within a half mile of the stranger’s pointed stern.
“Now, we’ll run down upon them!” glowed the young skipper.
“What will you do when you do get alongside?” asked Eben Moddridge, tremulously.
CHAPTER IX
PLAYING A SAILOR’S TRICK
“FIGHT, if we have to,” was Tom’s laconic reply.
“Oh, dear, I do hope that won’t be necessary,” cried Moddridge, in deeper agitation. “All quarrelsome noises and thoughts get upon my nerves to a dreadful extent.”
“We won’t fight unless they put us to it,” answered Halstead. “And, of course,” he added, with a slight smile, “we may get the worst of it. We may get ourselves fearfully whacked about.”