He had anticipated their maneuver.
Before they could get around and before Don could decide on whether to repeat the dive or to discover some other way of preventing ascent, the Dart strung in a boiling curve, one wingtip pontoon barely touching water to help it swing, and, with the wind, leaving in the water a hot, white seethe of broken wake, slanted sidewise to the breeze and rose.
With skill and quick yielding to control, the Dart swerved around into the wind.
Straight away, climbing rapidly, the small craft went.
After it, gunning up to top speed, went the Dragonfly.
On a level, Don’s speed about equaled the climbing speed of the angle taken by the Indian.
“Will red wings get away from white wings?” murmured Garry.
“Catch him, Don!” screeched Chick, unable to hold his quivering nerves as they made him tremble with eagerness. He felt like a coursing greyhound, urged on a trail but held by a restraining leash, willing to use his own effort, but restrained.
Garry, more controlled, watched.
Along the channel swept the strange chase.