"It is 152, signore; Pompeo. It will be a race," doubtfully.
"No matter; follow. It will be worth your while."
And a race it became. Both gondoliers were long past their youth, but each knew the exact weight and effort to be put upon the oar; no useless energy, no hurried work, no spurting, but long, deep swinging strokes. Up the Grand Canal, past the brilliant hotels. The runaway gondola had perhaps a hundred yards the best of it. Achille hung on, neither losing nor gaining a foot.
"Sit down, signori!" said Achille.
Hillard and Merrihew tumbled back upon the cushions.
"We shall not lose them this time, Dan."
"Are we gaining?"
"Not yet. But wait till they turn into some small canal."
The first loop of the Grand Canal was turned; still Pompeo made no effort to seek the smaller canals. Not till he passed under the Rialto, which afforded him a deep shadow, did he turn. Swiftly he bore into the canal which was filled with the postal-gondolas. But not so soon that Achille did not perceive and follow. On and on, soundless; now the pursuer had the advantage over the pursued. It was Pompeo who had to watch, to call; Achille had only to hang on. And he was gaining. A moment later less than ten yards intervened. O for some clumsy barge to bar the way! Round past the Teatro Malibran, into the Rio di San Marina, into a smaller canal again. Hillard now knew whither they were bound: the Campo Formosa.
At each stroke Merrihew swung forward his body. The end of the race came sooner than any one expected. A police barge nosed round an ell; by the time Pompeo was off again, the ferrule of the pursuing gondola scraped past Pompeo's blade. Pompeo called and Achille answered. There was a war of words, figure of a dog, name of a pig. Achille was in the wrong, but ten lire were ten lire. And he knew that his gentlemen meant no harm.