“I’ll show them!” Blackie put out a hand. Three powerful motors roared. The Stormy Petrel lurched forward, all but throwing Johnny into the sea.
Sudden as the movement was, it proved too slow. Like a true shadow, the thing vanished into the murk.
“It—it went down,” Johnny stammered. “Must have been a whale.”
“Or a submarine,” Lawrence suggested.
“It did not go down,” said MacGregor. “It slid away into the fog. And it was not a whale. I’ve seen plenty of whales. They’re never like that.”
“Wait!” Johnny sprang for the cannon. “I’ll give them a shot just to let them know we’re after them.”
“No! No! Not that!” MacGregor waved him back. “‘Speak softly and carry a big stick.’ That was Teddy Roosevelt’s motto. The grandest president that ever lived. There’s time enough to make a noise after we’ve got ’em under our thumb.”
“I—I’m sorry,” said Johnny.
CHAPTER XIV
A VOICE IN THE FOG
Forty-eight long hours the Stormy Petrel haunted the gray fog. During far more than his fair share of that time, eyes blinking but tireless, Johnny stood on deck studying the small circle of black waters.