‘You’re quite sure he isn’t on board?’ Racksole asked.
‘Quite,’ said Hazell positively: ‘I know how to search a vessel. See this,’ and he handed to Racksole a sort of steel skewer, about two feet long, with a wooden handle. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is one of the Customs’ aids to searching.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t do to go on board and carry off the lady?’ Racksole suggested doubtfully.
‘Well,’ Hazell began, with equal doubtfulness, ‘as for that--’
‘Where’s ‘e orf?’ It was the man in the bows who interrupted Hazell.
Following the direction of the man’s finger, both Hazell and Racksole saw with more or less distinctness a dinghy slip away from the forefoot of the Norwegian vessel and disappear downstream into the mist.
‘It’s Jules, I’ll swear,’ cried Racksole. ‘After him, men. Ten pounds apiece if we overtake him!’
‘Lay down to it now, boys!’ said Hazell, and the heavy Customs boat shot out in pursuit.
‘This is going to be a lark,’ Racksole remarked.
‘Depends on what you call a lark,’ said Hazell; ‘it’s not much of a lark tearing down midstream like this in a fog. You never know when you mayn’t be in kingdom come with all these barges knocking around. I expect that chap hid in the dinghy when he first caught sight of us, and then slipped his painter as soon as I’d gone.’
The boat was moving at a rapid pace with the tide. Steering was a matter of luck and instinct more than anything else. Every now and then Hazell, who held the lines, was obliged to jerk the boat’s head sharply round to avoid a barge or an anchored vessel. It seemed to Racksole that vessels were anchored all over the stream. He looked about him anxiously, but for a long time he could see nothing but mist and vague nautical forms. Then suddenly he said, quietly enough, ‘We’re on the right road; I can see him ahead.
We’re gaining on him.’ In another minute the dinghy was plainly visible, not twenty yards away, and the sculler--sculling frantically now--was unmistakably Jules--Jules in a light tweed suit and a bowler hat.
‘You were right,’ Hazell said; ‘this is a lark. I believe I’m getting quite excited. It’s more exciting than playing the trombone in an orchestra. I’ll run him down, eh?--and then we can drag the chap in from the water.’