CHAPTER XXIII

DIXON’S COWARDLY ACT

IN the next half hour the hull streak of the “Buzzard” became large enough for all aboard the “Restless” to see it with the naked eye.

“We’re surely gaining,” cried Tremaine, joyously.

“Not enough, sir,” replied Tom, shaking his head.

“What do you mean, lad?”

“Why, sir, if we don’t begin to gain faster, soon, then night will come down on us in a few hours, and we won’t be able to make out enough to keep that other boat in sight. She could change her course and slip away.”

“But her lights? It promises to be clear weather to-night.”

Anxious as he was, Captain Tom Halstead did not entirely succeed in suppressing a grin.

“An outlaw boat—a pirate craft, such as the ‘Buzzard’ is when engaged in a trick of this kind, isn’t likely to carry any visible lights at night.”

“Then we——”

“We’ll have to, sir. This is an honest boat, sailing under the law. Only United States naval or revenue people, on board, could legally authorize this craft to sail at night without lights, and then only under stress of great need.”

“We have police officers on board.”

“They don’t count in an excuse for sailing at night without masthead and side lights showing,” Captain Tom replied, gravely. “The whole story is told, sir, when I say that our only chance lies in getting so close to the ‘Buzzard’ before dark that, lights or no lights, she can’t give us the slip in the dark.”

“Then the chances are all against our success, aren’t they?” inquired Mrs. Tremaine.

“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.’”

For some moments Joe ran through the pages of the code book. Then he selected the signal flags, while Jeff Randolph fastened them to a halyard in the proper order.

“All complete,” announced Joe. “Hoist away.”

Up went the line of bunting, breaking out gracefully. There was just enough breeze to spread the signals clearly.

“Let the cap’n of the ‘Buzzard’ pass that by if he thinks best,” muttered one of the Tampa officers, dryly.

“He could declare, afterwards, that he didn’t observe our signal,” Tom Halstead remarked, thoughtfully.

“He could, suh, sutt’nly, but we wouldn’t believe him.”

Though the other motor boat was still well in the lead, it was not gaining in relative distance, but rather slowly losing. No one showed aft on the “Buzzard,” and no heed was paid to the signal fluttering from the signal mast of the “Restless.”

“We’ve simply got to keep this up until we run within hail,” muttered Tremaine.

“Too bad we’re not a revenue cutter,” sighed Skipper Tom.

“What, then?”

“We’d have a bow-gun, and could fire a shot past the ‘Buzzard.’”

“Yo’ get us a good bit nearer, Cap’n, an’ maybe we can fire a shot past her, anyway,” spoke up one of the Tampa policemen.

“Eh?” asked Tom.

“We’ve noticed, suh, that yo’ have rifles on bo’d. Nothin’ to stop us from sending a bullet by the other craft, only we’ve got to be mighty careful, suh, not to hit anyone on the ‘Buzzard.’”

“We’ll have you, in thirty minutes, I guess, where you can use a rifle,” chuckled the young motor boat captain.

After twenty minutes the officer who had proposed the use of the rifle went below for one of the weapons. Armed with this, he first inspected the magazine, then stood well forward on the bridge deck at the port side. Presently, after judging his distance, the officer raised the rifle, sighted carefully, and fired.

Over the deck-house of the “Buzzard” a man’s head and shoulders were visible, as he stood, facing the bow, at the steering wheel.

An instant after the red flash leaped from the muzzle of the rifle this steersman on the other craft “ducked” suddenly, crouching for a few seconds before he ventured to rise.

“He shuah heard the bullet whistle by him,” chuckled the other policeman.

“I must have shot proper close,” remarked the marksman. “I don’t mean to hit anybody, either.”

After two or three minutes the man with the rifle fired again.

This time the man at the “Buzzard’s” wheel did not dodge. Instead, he half turned, looking swiftly astern.

“Too—oo—oot!” sounded his whistle. Next, the “Buzzard’s” speed slowed down, after which the craft swung around.

“He gives it up!” shouted Tom Halstead, gleefully.

Yet the next instant Tom and the others on the deck of the “Restless” cried out in horror.

Oliver Dixon had suddenly sprung up the after companionway of the “Buzzard.” In his right hand the young man clutched a revolver. He waved his left hand to the oncoming pursuers, after which he raised the weapon to his temple.