The skiff was once more a diminished speck, alarmingly close in to the shoals that Nat dreaded. Moreover, during the wait, while they had fretted and fumed, the outsetting tide had carried them further out to sea. Thus it appeared as if the very forces of nature were allied with Minory.
But the boys set up a triumphant shout as once more the bow of the Nomad began to cleave the water and all fixed their gaze eagerly on the object of their pursuit. He, for his part, must have been watching them closely, for Joe observed through the glasses that, as soon as they began to move once more, he quickened his stroke.
On and on rushed the Nomad, and the water began to grow yellow and green in patches about her, marking spots where there was shoal water. Between these patches threaded narrow streaks of blue which showed deep channels that could be safely traversed.
The man they were pursuing evidently knew the surface indications of the water as well as they did, for it was seen that he carefully navigated the skiff over the shallowest water where the yellow color showed that sand bars lay close to the surface. As the passages grew more and more intricate, Joe fairly gasped as Nat kept right on. But Nat showed not the slightest sign of relinquishing the chase, although all about them as the tide ran out the bars grew more and more numerous.
“Say,” Joe ventured to remark presently, “hadn’t we better slow down?”
“Not yet,” came through Nat’s gritted teeth. Joe saw the well-known forward thrust of Nat’s jaw that betokened that he was in deadly earnest, but he made no further comment.
Every minute, though, he expected to feel the grating jar that would announce the end of the chase and the grounding of the Nomad. So far everything was going smoothly and they were steadily overhauling the skiff, although their loss of way by the eccentric breakage and tide drift had been considerable.
Things were still in this condition when the skiff entered the mouth of the creek, and suddenly, after proceeding a few yards, vanished as if she had sunk. But Nat knew that no such thing had occurred.
“He’s turned up into a side channel where he knows we won’t stand the ghost of a chance to nail him,” cried Nat. “Bad luck and more of it.”
“Nothing to do but to turn back, eh, Nat?” asked Joe, secretly rather relieved at this termination to the chase. He didn’t want to see the Nomad aground and helpless till high tide set her afloat again, or, worse still, till tackles had to be rigged or help sent for to drag her into deep water.