A lightish streak surged in the wake of the other launch. Matt could not make out much about the craft except that she was considerably larger than the Sprite and had a canvas or wooden canopy over the cockpit.
But the Sprite was the faster boat. Matt, studying the distance that separated the Sprite from the launch ahead, found it necessary to choke down the motor in order to keep from overhauling the three thieves.
"I thought you wanted to catch them," complained McGlory, conscious of the lessening speed.
"What good would it do for us to overhaul them out in the bay?" queried Matt, humping over the wheel and speaking without turning his head. "There are three of the scoundrels, and they're armed and would probably be only too glad to have us tackle them. If Red-whiskers could lay me by the heels, you know, he'd get his trunk check."
"Correct, pard. It wouldn't do to run alongside of them in the bay. But what're you thinking of?"
"We're just shadowing them to find out where they go. When we discover that, we'll hold a council and decide what's to be done next."
"Waugh!" sputtered McGlory. "Queerest ever that I can't ride on the water without getting a gone feeling in the pit of my stomach."
"Have you got it now, Joe?"
"Awful. If I had any supper aboard, I reckon I'd unload. And I can go through all kinds of rough weather on a buckin' bronk! No matter how much a bronk pitches, or bucks, it never makes me squeamish—but boats! Well, the minute I get into one I begin to have cramps. Funny, ain't it? They got a fake boat in a picture gallery in Tucson, and if a galoot wants a tin type of himself, at sea, he gets into the fake boat and lets the camera snap. Honest to Mack, every time I go to that place for a tin type I get seasick."
Matt laughed.