Ping couldn't figure it out. About all he realized was that there was a race between the Sprite and the San Bruno. Inasmuch as the San Bruno belonged to the enemy, Ping hoped in his heart that the Sprite would leave her behind.
They were making for the shore of the cove, but the strange white man was handling the boat badly. He didn't push or pull the way Motor Matt did, and the imprisoned devil under the hood—the power that made the propeller whirl—coughed and spluttered with rage and pounded on the machinery with iron hammers.
It got on Ping's nerves, and he hoisted himself to a sitting posture.
"By Klismus," he cried frantically, "you lettee Ping lun engine! Him makee go chop-chop, keepee Splite away flom othel boat!"
The strange white man looked around with a snarl.
"Shut up!" he roared, "or I'll toss ye into the drink, so help me!"
Ping shut up. Lying back on the thwart he watched the other boat draw nearer and nearer. The shore was yet a good way off, and it was plain the San Bruno would overhaul the Sprite before the land could be reached. And how the good devil under the hood was fighting to do better! How hard it was begging the strange white man to treat it right, and let it work easier and take the Sprite away from the other boat.
Ping gave a deep groan. Oh, if he was only at the wheel, and the pull-things and the push-things!
He looked around for something to throw at the strange white man. If a monkey wrench, or a hatchet, had been convenient, then one Landers would probably never have known what struck him.
But, fortunately for Landers—and for Ping, too—no weapon was available, and the race went on. The shore was near now, but the San Bruno was nearer.