There was no doubt about it: those New Englanders knew how to manage a boat in a seaway. Dexterously the falls were cast off, and bending to their oars the rowers made the whaler shoot over the long, heaving waves.
Before they had made twenty strokes the report of a pistol shot came from the tramp. Without a moment's hesitation her skipper jumped from the bridge without troubling to make use of the ladder, and bolted aft, followed by half a dozen of the deck hands.
It was not long before he was back on deck with a revolver in his hand. At his command one of the men signalled to the "Meteor."
"Sorry! You're right. Laid the skunk by the heels."
As soon as the "Quickstep's" boat came alongside the airship the lad in charge swarmed up the rope ladder and gained the deck.
"Guess you're the boss of this hyer packet?" he exclaimed. "I'm Silas P. Cotton, second mate of the S.S. 'Quickstep.' Shake."
Vaughan Whittinghame smiled and accepted the invitation. He extended his hand and shook the proffered tarry paw of the self-possessed young Boston man.
"That skunk Durango has been throwing dust into the old man's eyes," continued Silas P. Cotton. "So the boss has sent me to square things up. I reckon we've heard of the wonderful 'Meteor,' but we didn't calculate on her being so short in length."
"Neither did we," agreed Whittinghame. "Come to my cabin and let us hear about your three passengers. What will you have to drink?"
"Guess rum's my pizen, boss."