"Do—you—require—first—aid?" semaphored Jock. The answer was emphatic if not to the point.
"You go to blazes!" was the message given by the irate skipper's arms.
By this time the drifter had set her headsails and mizzen, but the Spindrift was gaining rapidly on her.
"It will be a race," declared Hayes. "We are beating her already, and we haven't our motor going."
"Wait till she sets her mainsail," said Desmond. "Then she'll show us her heels."
"We may as well set ours," added Mr. Graham. "All reef points secured? Good—hoist away on your throat halliards."
The mainsail was set as a trysail, the peak lowered to its full extent. Even that comparatively small expanse of canvas made a difference, for the yacht quickly drew abreast of the drifter.
Up went the latter's mainsail. She too increased her pace, but it was soon evident that the under-canvased yacht more than held her own with her bulky rival, hampered as she was with the drag of her three-bladed propeller.
"We've company," observed Bedford, "although a surly fellow at that. Is he making for Weymouth, do you think, sir?"
"If he does, he'll have his work cut out to work up the east side of the Bill," replied Mr. Graham. "We won't risk it."