CHAPTER XII.
THE SMUGGLER AT BAY.
But it didn’t look much as if Mr. Anderson’s words were to be verified. Dr. Chalmers came on deck, as he had been doing from time to time to learn what was going on. He was told of the startling turn that affairs had suddenly taken, and Nat asked him if it was important that Mr. Jenkins should be set ashore speedily.
“I think not,” was the reply. “Thanks to your medicine chest, I have the antiseptics I require for treating the wound, and, so far, he is still asleep, which is an encouraging sign. Keep on, my boy, and get that rascal if you can.”
He went below once more to watch his patient, and the others concentrated their minds on the chase. Ding-dong came on deck for a breathing spell and was placed in possession of the facts.
“If w-w-w-we only had wur-wur-wireless on board, we’d soon stop their little ger-ger-game,” he groaned.
“We’ll have it just as soon as possible,” Nat assured him. “All this has shown me what a useful thing it would be to have an installation made right on board.”
The black motor boat zipped through the water like a streak. So fine were her lines that she left hardly any wake, except a churned up streak of white that marked where her powerful propellers were biting into the water and driving her onward at twelve hundred revolutions a minute.
“The only chance we stand is if she breaks down,” muttered Nat, as he watched the rapidly receding outlines of the craft.
“And we stand as good a chance of doing that as she, to judge by past performances,” grunted Joe.