“You think we could make it before Stroth’d get wise? He’s got a good engine himself, remember; and, should he tumble, he’d have a head start on the launch.”
“But, being auxiliary,” I interrupted, frantic for action, “he is bound to be as much slower than the police boat than it is to our hydro. Besides, he’s not to up-anchor or cut. It’ll work!” I cried enthusiastically as I fished in my pocket for my jackknife and turned back quickly toward the taffrail.
“Here, what’re you up to?” snapped Pawlinson.
“Why, we’ve got to cast that blamed punt adrift now,” I answered sharply. “We’ve got to be clear of everything.”
Ice came into the voice that met my warmth.
“Start the engine. We’ll keep the punt.”
“But, man——”
“Start the engine.”
There was that in Pawlinson I’ve met in few men; for I had that machine barking the next instant—and I’m not an oversweet-tempered individual myself, as I have intimated.
I threw in the clutch, and we fairly jumped out of the water when she began to “plane.”