Perfectly oblivious of the spectators, and with eyes only for his course, Matt saw nothing and no one apart from the boundary buoys, until he turned the Sprite for the start. Then, while waiting for the starting gun, he caught a glimpse of the taunting face of Ollie Merton.
"Fooled you, eh?" called Merton. "You'll do sixteen miles, at your best, and we'll go over twenty."
Motor Matt did not reply. If Merton had only known what was under the hood of the Sprite, his gibe would never have been uttered.
As they passed the stake boat side by side, Merton and Halloran began to suspect something. The Sprite hung to them too persistently for a sixteen-mile-an-hour boat.
"He's got something in that boat of his," breathed Halloran, "that we don't know anything about."
"Confound him!" snorted Merton, enraged at the very suspicion. "If he fools us with any of his low-down tricks, I'll fix him before he leaves that made-over catamaran of his."
"You'll treat him white, Merton, win or lose," scowled Halloran.
"Then you see to it that you win!" said Merton.
Along the double line of boats rushed the racers. The waves tossed up from the bows rose high, creamed into froth, and the spray drifted and eddied around Matt, Halloran, and Merton. At the edge of the lane, the craft of the sightseers rocked with the heave the flying boats kicked up.