"But what in the Sam Hill ails the bally old boat, then?" exclaimed George, as he turned his eyes again on the fast receding Wireless, that was heading out from the shore.
"It's some trick of a native cracker; he's swimming under water, and pulling the boat after him. We've got to get in the other boats and give chase," declared shrewd Josh.
"It's mighty queer, that's all!" gasped Nick; while Jimmy stood as if turned into stone, his eyes round with fear and superstition, for Jimmy had inherited the regular Irish belief in banshees and ghosts.
George made a dash for the nearest boat, which happened to be the Tramp.
"Wait for me!" shouted the owner of that craft, who was putting on a spurt in order to reach them quickly, having forgotten all about his finny prizes in this new and overwhelming discovery.
He came up on the run, but already Herb was in the Comfort, about to start the engine.
"No need, Herb," gasped Jack, "George and myself can overtake it with the Tramp. The rest of you stay here."
"But glory be, what ails the ould thing?" demanded Jimmy, determined not to let the commodore get away without some explanation of the puzzle.
"Why, don't you understand?" said Jack, as he busied himself with the motor. "A big fish, perhaps a wandering shark, has fouled the anchor rope, and getting badly rattled, has put off at full speed, dragging the boat after him. He's headed for the nearest inlet at this very minute; but we'll beat him at that little game, won't we, George?"
Then the rattle of the motor sounded, and immediately the Tramp set off in the wake of the runaway motor boat.