"Go it, you deerhounds," shrilled an Irish tenor in the crowd. "Work your feet, not your arms."
"The elephant leads; come on, you whale!" shouted another.
By this time the runners had made the curve at the bow of the boat and were coming up the starboard side, toward the stern.
On the nearest armed convoy an officer was taking in the contest through a pair of marine glasses, and apparently enjoying it immensely.
"Hooray! Hooray!" yelled the crowd of onlookers as Slim spurted and the pair rounded the stern and came down to the tape at the end of their first lap, neck and neck. Both were puffing like porpoises.
"Hey, Sausage, you've got a flat tire," cried a youth as they passed.
And from another: "Your engine's knocking, Skinny. Reduce your spark."
So the good-natured raillery continued while the two fat boys drove doggedly on, now at considerably reduced speed, but still side by side, each determined to capture that plum pudding.
They had passed the tape a second time, snorting louder and in shorter gasps than before, and with the biting repartee still assailing their ears, when the man who had disappeared into the hold of the ship came into sight again, carrying a large can.
"Quick!" he warned those about him. "Right here—before they see."