“Gov’mint regulations,” said Bascom stubbornly. “Must carry lights.”
“Five dollars?” Iff argued persuasively.
“Agin the law,” growled Bascom. “But—I dunno—they ain’t anybody likely to be out this time o’ night. Cross my palm.”
And Staff again disbursed.
The white mooring-buoy swam past and the little vessel heeled as Bascom swung her sharply to the southwards.
“Now,” he told Spelvin, “advance that spark all you’ve a mind to.”
There was a click from the engine-pit and the steady rumble of the exhaust ran suddenly into a prolonged whining drone. The boat jumped as if jerked forward by some gigantic, invisible hand. Beneath the bows the water parted with a crisp sound like tearing paper. Long ripples widened away from the sides, like ribs of a huge fan. A glassy hillock of water sprang up mysteriously astern, pursuing them like an avenging Nemesis, yet never quite catching up.
The sense of irresistible speed was tremendous, as stimulating as electricity; this in spite of the fact that the boat was at best making about half the speed at which the motor-car had plunged along the country roads: an effect in part due to the spacious illusion of moonlit distances upon the water.
Staff held his cap with one hand, drinking in the keen salt air with a feeling of strange exultation. Iff crept forward and tarried for a time talking to the boatbuilder.
The boat shaved a nun-buoy outside Barmouth Point so closely that Staff could almost have touched it by stretching out his arm. Then she straightened out like a greyhound on a long course across the placid silver reaches to a goal as yet invisible.