Forward ran the porter, trundling the truck. After him came Beeby, going slower and slower, for he was winded. Captain Barton, unaware of the impending arrival of Dick's guest, had shoved the telegraph lever over. There was the ringing of a bell in the engine room, and the yacht gathered way.
"Hold on!" cried Dick. "Stop the engines!"
"Run out the gang-plank again!" ordered Paul.
"Come on, Innis, come on!" yelled Dick to his friend.
"Get on the truck, and let the porter wheel you," suggested Paul. He scarcely believed the fat cadet would do it, but the suggestion came at just the right time, and the fleshy lad called:
"Here, porter, let me sit on top of my trunk. I can't go another step."
"Sure!" assented the man, and, a moment later, he was assisting the late passenger up on top of the baggage. There was a laugh from the crowd on the pier, in which Dick and his chums joined, but Innis Beeby cared little for that. He could breathe easier now, and there was a better chance of him catching the yacht.
The porter broke into a run with his load, and soon was alongside the Albatross. But the vessel was now in the grip of the tide, and, though the engine had been stopped, the yacht was moving. The gang-plank could not be run out, for a snubbing post was right in the way.
"Get off, and I'll throw your baggage on board!" cried the porter, for there was, as yet, but a small space of water between the steamer's rail and the bulkhead.
"Yes—but—how—am—I—going—to—get—on—board?" panted the exhausted cadet.