“Don't you see?” said Pink; “she can beat the old Schmidt hands down.”
“They'd sneaked across out by the end,” added Wilson, “while I was nearer shore.” Beveridge sat down again, and tapped the table nervously as his eyes shifted from one to another of the faces before him. “How're they sailing, Bert?”
“Right off north.”
“Before the wind?”
“Yes, sure,” said Pink; “how could they help it with a south wind?”
“Smiley,”—Beveridge had turned on Dick, and was speaking in a keen, hard voice,—“where are they going?”
“I couldn't tell you.”
“Think a little. Your memory's poor, maybe.”
But Dick was stubborn. Pink, however, was struck by a flash of intelligence. “I 'll bet I know.”
“Where, Harper?”