"How much?" persisted Aronson, but the Venetia had just disappeared behind an island and the thought of returning empty-handed to Shagarach acted like a rowel in his flank. "I'll give you $50," he cried, suddenly.
"Done," said the Yankee, wringing his hand, and then Aronson knew that he ought to have offered $25. But it was no time for haggling. "At any cost," he repeated to himself. The mariner hurried him in and out among the wharves, till they came upon a battered but resolute-looking tugboat, on which two or three deck-hands were lounging.
"Get steam up, Si," cried the skipper, and after a delay which seemed an hour to Aronson the water began to be churned to foam before her bow and the little craft had started on its long chase.
Past the islands of the harbor, past the slow merchant schooners, past the white-sailed careening pleasure sloops, past the harbor police boat, past the revenue cutter, past the excursion steamers to local beaches, past the crowded Yarmouth, they flew, cheered on by the passengers—for everybody soon saw it was a race.
Aronson was studying the wide beam of the Venetia in front. How slowly they were gaining! They were out beyond the farthest island in the harbor, the lighthouse shoal that is covered at high tide, and still the Red Star liner bore away from them with half a mile of clear water between.
"Cheer up, shipmate," cried Perkins; "she's gettin' bigger and bigger. Heap the coals on down there, Si."
The Venetia must have sighted her pursuer long ago, and indeed the faces of her passengers on the bow were becoming more and more visible every moment. But this was a record trip, and it would be beneath her dignity to slow up for every petty rowboat that hailed her. So her engines continued to pump and she clove the glorious waters swiftly.
"Ahoy!" shouted Capt. Perkins.
"Ahoy yourself!" came the answer. Aronson thought he saw a woman's face that he knew on the deck.
"Heave to! A boarder!"