"Er—yes. I don't know. Well, yes, let her go. What's the odds?" murmured Dunn, losing interest suddenly. "You'll excuse me, Miss Marion." And he went down the companionway. "When in doubt, take a drink," he repeated to himself. "Maybe I'll run into some people who think of something besides their—their——-" but he left the sentence unfinished as he drank off a dram of gin and lime-juice. Dunn was a bit of a sport at bottom, and his wife's friends were not—not of the kind he was used to. It was hard to run a yacht as big as his schooner for the amusement of silly women, and even more silly men.
Captain Smart hove up his anchor, hoisted both jib and staysail, and while the trim little ship broke off to port, the white-ducked crew neatly catted her hook and stretched up her topsails, sending out a big balloon forward which bellied out and sent her racing through the northwest passage.
It was a beautiful day, and the sun shining upon the white hull made a very pretty picture of the fabric rushing through a whitening path upon the blue water. The solid-silver trophies in the saloon were made fast in their places, for the vessel was leaning heavily away from the breeze, and Dunn locked his little buffet and came on deck to join his guests.
The men of the Sea-Horse watched the yacht until she was hull-down to the northward, her canvas alone marking the spot of her whereabouts, which was changing at the rate of ten knots an hour. But they were in no particular hurry to follow.
Sanders had found out where she was bound, and it was not until late in the afternoon, when the sun was setting, that the Sea-Horse hoisted her dirty mainsail. Then she stood away for Cuba, passing out by the Sand Key Light into the Gulf Stream.
When darkness fell she was shortened down and allowed to drift along slowly with the current, which took her many miles before the following day.
In the morning the Sayonara stood in through the pass of Boca Grande. It is here that the tarpon, the giant herring of the south sea, makes his entrance to the shallow waters of the Florida reef. Dunn lost no time engaging guides and preparing for the kill. In the waters of the reef one does not catch fish; he kills them. A tarpon is not usually eaten, and is caught solely for the excitement of the fight. Nearly all the great game fish are equally unpalatable, therefore the sportsman has long ceased to speak of his catch, which in other waters is useful, and generally brought home for food.
The small boats were gotten overboard, and the party, made up in pairs with a guide to each, headed into the pass. Boats from the floating hotel back among the keys joined them, and during the forenoon the fish struck.