Rob made no reply. Instead he turned to Merritt.
“All the ginger you can, old man,” he said quietly, as the Hawks’ boat dashed off at top speed, towing the captured sturgeon behind them. Already they were two or three boat lengths ahead of the Eagles.
“Fathom! Fathom!” shouted Rob suddenly.
His keen eyes had noticed that the Hawks’ boat had not paid out line to the fathom mark, which was indicated by a bit of red rag tied in the harpoon rope. Instead, they were towing their quarry quite close to their stern.
“It’s out!” shouted back Dale Harding, a flash of defiance in his eye, but the referee’s voice cut in.
“Fathom there! Pay out your line!” he ordered sharply.
Rather sulkily Dale obeyed. This gave Rob another chance. Poising himself carefully, he threw once more. This time his cast landed in the wooden back, but the distance was so great that much of the force of the cast was lost. The steel point of the harpoon hung quiveringly in not more than an inch of wood.
“Yah-h-h-h-h!” yelled the Hawkites disgustedly.
“Good for you, Blake!” came a roar from the Eagle supporters.
“A spurt. Pull, you beggars!” yelled Dale suddenly.