“Head her over,” ordered Kenyon, sternly.
“I won’t,” replied the other. “And what’s more I’m going to run back to Morris Heights. There is something about this thing that don’t look right to me.”
“We will be responsible for any sort of damage,” Webster told him, encouragingly.
“I don’t care what you do,” returned Phylen, whose mind seemed to be made up. “Slow her down, Ned,” to the man at the engine, “we are going back.”
He was about to change the course of the boat when Kenyon’s powerful grip fell upon him, and he was dragged away from the wheel. At the same moment the long frame of Big Slim slid from the top of the cabin into the little companionway, blocking the entrance of the engineman.
“An engine was once my job,” he told Kenyon, coolly. “Say the word, pal, and I’m here to stay.”
“Take charge of these two men,” directed Kenyon. And Gypsy Brady and his followers had the skipper and engineer in their midst, forward, in a moment. Then, with Kenyon at the wheel and Slim at the engine, the Vixen headed toward the flying Wizard.
But the Vixen was a swift boat, and easily closed the gap between herself and the yacht; before long they were in the wash alongside and the spray was drenching them. The leap from the Vixen’s cabin top to the Wizard’s rail would be no great feat, if they could get near enough, for the yacht had a rather low freeboard.
“Take the wheel, Garry,” said Kenyon, at last. “I’m going to make the try.”
Webster looked aghast.