There was no shunning the island now on Pawlinson’s part.
Instead, he headed almost directly for it—a course that was calculated to bring us within a furlong of the anchored schooner on our way to intercept the patrol launch, which was pointed, as near as we could judge, directly cityward.
The exact angle was a thing of estimation to a nicety; but, with the speed we were soon attaining, it certainly looked as if it would work.
The wind had fallen flat, as it often does between the day and night breezes, and this helped. So we cut a swath of boiling spume over an unrippled mirror which heaved only to a slight swell.
“Now, man”—Pawlinson let me into his thoughts—“once clear of the schooner’s stern, and we’ve got ’em; no matter which way the cat jumps.”
“Yes,” I agreed enthusiastically. “By that time they wouldn’t have a chance to clear before we’d have the patrol launch veered for her.”
“And now for it!” His tone was calm and collected enough; but I read tenseness in it, nevertheless.
As for myself, I was fairly rigid with the moment, for it was the crucial one. We were about to pass the schooner.
Then came the sickening disgust.
Out from the fore crosstrees blazed the white glare of the searchlight again.