The Motor Boat Club in Florida: or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp

“Yes, madam,” replied the young sailing master.

Henry Tremaine, who had put away the marine glass, began to tramp the deck at starboard, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Halstead,” he cried, desperately, at last, “what can we do – no matter what the cost – to get up closer to that pirate craft!”

“Nothing more than we’re doing now, sir.”

“Can’t we burn more gasoline?”

“Not without heating the motors so that we’d be stopped altogether within a few minutes.”

“How far are we away from the ‘Buzzard’?”

“Probably five miles, at least.”

“Then, even if we gained half a mile an hour for ten hours, we’d just barely get alongside?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Whereas, in a good deal less than ten hours, it will be dark?”

“Right again, Mr. Tremaine.”

“Then,” uttered Henry Tremaine, with a look of disgust, “we might as well put back and loaf along our way into the harbor at Tampa.”

“But we won’t do it,” declared Tom Halstead, with spirit.

“No? Why not?”

“Because I’m in command here, Mr. Tremaine. We’re after a scoundrel, and the officers are ready to do their duty. No matter how long the chase is, I simply won’t give it up until I find that the ‘Buzzard’ is wholly out of sight and past our powers of overtaking.”

“Jove! You’ve got the right grit!” replied the charter-man, admiringly. “But, as it’s going to take hours, anyway, I’m going to drop some of my excitement and get more comfort out of life. Can you spare young Randolph?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Then, Jeff, get some luncheon for those who want it, myself included,” ordered the charter-man.

Tom Halstead laughed enjoyingly.

“That’s the most practical order you could give, Mr. Tremaine. We may have our whole hearts in this present business, but a good meal all around won’t hinder the success of our work a bit.”

The galley of the “Restless” being provided with food of kinds that could be speedily prepared, it was not long before Jeff had an appetizing meal laid in the cabin aft. Then Joe came up to the wheel while his chum partook of a quick meal in the motor room. That done, Tom took his place at the helm once more, while Joe Dawson and Jeff Randolph ate.

Joe’s jaw was squarely set when he came on deck the next time, though this fact did not hide his look of concern.

“You’d sooner cripple the motors than give up the race before you have to?” the young engineer inquired, in a low voice.

“There’s only one thing we’ll slow up for,” responded Halstead, looking at his companion. “That will be if you think there’s danger of a gasoline explosion.”

“No! there’s no danger of that,” sighed Joe. “But the motors won’t hold out much longer at this speed. We’re going at least three miles an hour faster than the engines were ever built to go.”

“What’s our speed?” asked Henry Tremaine.

“Just about thirty miles an hour, sir,” Joe Dawson answered. “I’ve followed orders and am crowding every possible revolution without regard for anything but danger to life.”

“You’re not running the ladies’ lives into danger, then?”

“No, sir.”

“Good! That’s all I care about,” ordered the charter-man. “When this day is over I’ll install newer and better engines for you, if these are hurt in any way, and I’ll pay you for whatever time the boat may be laid up for repairs.”

“Say, but we’re gaining on them,” reported Captain Tom, a few minutes later. “Do you notice how much larger the ‘Buzzard’s’ hull looms?”

“It does,” agreed Tremaine. “That’s a certain fact.”

Everybody, the Tampa officers included, crowded forward for a look.

Watchful of the slightest variation of the helm, Captain Halstead steered the straightest line that his sea experience had taught him to do.

“Great!” cried the charter-man. “If this keeps up, we’ll overhaul those fellows before dark. But how do you account for our sudden success?”

“I’ve a strong notion,” responded Dawson, “that those fellows on the ‘Buzzard’ have had to slow down their engines to prevent a crash in the machinery.”

“If you can only keep yours going, then!”

“I’m trying hard enough,” muttered Joe, holding up his oil can. “I am keeping this thing in my hand all the time, now.”

Within another quarter of an hour it was plain that further gains had been made on the craft ahead.

Joe now felt warranted in easing up ever so little on his own motors, yet he was careful not to shut off too much speed.

“It’s odd that our two vessels should be the only ones in sight,” remarked Mrs. Tremaine, as the race continued down the Florida coast.

“There isn’t a heap of commerce on this side of Florida,” Halstead answered. “As like as not we’ll not sight another craft all afternoon.”

In another hour the distance between the two motor boats was less than two and a half miles. Joe eased up just a trifle more, then came on deck, his eyes glowing.

“The ‘Buzzard’s’ engineer didn’t take all the care of his motors that he ought to have done at the start,” guessed Dawson. “Now he’s sorry, I reckon.”

“Have you a little time to spare, Joe?” queried Halstead, who did not quit the wheel.

“I guess so. What can I do?”

“Get the code book and the signal bunting. Have Jeff help you rig up a signal, and hoist it to the head of the signal mast.”

“What signal?” queried the young engineer.

“Signal: ‘Lie to. We are after criminal on your vessel.’”