“Hey, Phil Malone!” shouted Captain Bunderley, “stand by to catch a line.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Uncle Ralph began to issue various orders. The bell in the engine room clanged loudly. The motor roared for an instant, then sank into a low, droning murmur.
“Mind yourself!” yelled a voice, suddenly.
A man on the lower deck of the whaleback was making ready to cast a rope.
On it came—a sinuous, snake-like line, hurtling straight toward Captain Bunderley, who stood near the bow. The throw was accurate, and, in spite of the rocking, slippery deck, the skipper managed to catch it. In another instant Phil Malone was grasping a second rope hurled from a point near the motor yacht’s stern.
Both lines were made fast, and the “Fearless,” struggling like some resisting monster against the grip of a giant foe, began closing up the gap of water which lay between it and the great white hull.
Although shielded by the towering whaleback, the yacht wobbled and shook to such an extent that the last particle of interest on Charlie Blake’s part vanished. Supporting himself with difficulty, he stood watching Phil Malone and the captain hang out fenders. He heard various shouts from both vessels, the bell in the engine room of the “Fearless” again clanging, and the creak of straining ropes. Then the last few feet of water was covered and the yacht sidled up to the larger boat with a dull, jarring shock.
Presently a rope ladder dangled its length from deck to deck. Judge Hampton trusted himself to its swaying rungs, and, with extreme care, descended to the motor yacht.
“When I started out I didn’t expect to have the honor of welcoming a former member of Wisconsin’s judiciary on board the ‘Fearless,’” said Captain Bunderley, assisting his passenger to a seat.