“Where’s the fourth?” cried Willie.
“Port your helm,” ordered the Chief, “or they will get by us.”
With every ounce of power they possessed, the roaring rum runners were striving to pass the Surveyor. At full speed the little patrol boat was cutting for shore to head them off. Closer and closer to the shore line ventured the speeding smugglers.
“Gad!” cried the Chief. “In another minute we’ll run them ashore.”
The distance was greater than he judged. In another minute the foremost rum runner was passing the Surveyor’s bow like a race horse. Her companions were close to her flanks. Not a dozen yards separated the flying smugglers from the shore, but it was enough, for the tide was at flood. The Surveyor was still half a cable’s length away.
“They are going to make it,” shouted the Chief. “Get your guns.”
He grabbed up a megaphone. “Stop!” he roared. “Or we’ll fire.”
The response was a shot from the foremost rum runner.
“Down!” cried the Chief. “Shoot and shoot to hit.”
The crew sank to the deck and whipping out their weapons, opened fire. A shot must have gone true, for the leading rum runner faltered, swerved from her course, and was almost run down by a sister boat. The fleeing fleet was thrown into confusion.