“I’m afraid it looks that way, Joe; still, we can only keep on and hope for the best. We won’t give up the chase now, whatever happens.”
“That’s the talk,” said Mr. Anderson approvingly; “they must be driving her cruelly to keep up that pace, and machinery is only machinery and something may give.”
“Well, I hope it does soon,” commented Joe, “or she’ll be out of sight.”
This looked as if it was entirely likely to happen. Diminished to a mere speck, the speedy craft made the Nomad, fast as she was for her sturdy, sea-going build, look like a stone barge chasing a canoe.
“If it would come on to blow, there would be a different tale to tell,” said Nat, “but it’s ‘set fair’ by the look of it and we’ve nothing to hope from in that quarter.”
Then what they had feared happened. The fast craft vanished over the horizon. They were hopelessly outclassed.
“Beaten to a frazzle,” choked out Joe indignantly, “and by a miserable opium-smuggling, piratical old thief at that.”
“We’ll keep right on,” repeated Nat, and he grimly steered the same course he had been holding when their speedy quarry vanished from view.
Half an hour later he was to be mighty glad he did. Up over the rim of the horizon came the form of the fleeing black craft. Clearly, it had been compelled to slow up from some cause or other.
“Hurray!” yelled the excitable Joe. “We’ve got a chance now!”