Dave put on power that made the little launch strain and quiver from stem to stern. He was terribly excited and anxious. His breath came in quick jerks, his heart beat fast.
"Close shave," he panted, "but I've made it."
Two hundred feet down the channel was the gunboat, as Dave crossed her outlet. The ironclad swung out after him not one minute later.
The launch fairly skimmed the water. The ironclad loomed portentously near, but Dave felt that, no mishap occurring, he would win the race.
"They've got me, I guess," he gasped a second later.
A flash, a loud boom, and a terrific concussion plunged Dave into a condition of extreme confusion and uncertainty.
The ironclad had fired a shot. It had struck the stern of the launch, splintering it clear open. A great shower of water deluged Dave and his insensible captive.
Dave regarded the damage done with grave dismay--the stern had sunk and the launch was now on a slant.
In fact, the rear portion of the boat was under water to the rail.
Only by keeping up power could the launch be prevented from filling and going down. Dave never let go his grasp on the lever. He held firmly to the last notch in the indicator.