The black motor boat got under way again, leaving an abandoned skiff behind. What story the rascally genius had concocted, of course they did not know, but Joe could see old Israel, or a man whom he guessed was he, pointing at the Nomad as if she were the subject of the conversation on board the fast, rakish craft.
On she came with a bone in her teeth, and, heading round, threaded her way rapidly out of the intricate passageway and across the Nomad’s bow. Nat almost groaned aloud in his chagrin.
“Can’t we overtake her?” asked Mr. Anderson.
Nat shook his head despairingly as he watched the black craft cut smoothly through the water at a rate that he estimated at fully eighteen knots or over an hour.
“Not a chance on earth, sir,” he said.
“There’s not a boat round here can touch her,” declared the sailor with grim confidence. “I reckon old Israel uses her in his opium smuggling. He needs a fast boat for that, and maybe some of that political ring helped him put those speedy engines in her, for they must have cost a pretty penny.”
Suddenly one of the figures on the black craft was seen to move toward the stern. Then came a mocking wave of farewell and a shouted something that they could not catch.
Nat set his teeth forcefully.
“There’s one chance in a thousand that she’ll break down or something,” he said with grim determination, “and I’m going to follow her as long as I can.”
“Good for you, my lad,” exclaimed Mr. Anderson. “The luck’s bound to turn some time. So far it has favored them—maybe it will be our turn now.”