There was prompt action on the _Seneca_, and the Pinkertons were also stirring. The anchors of both craft were quickly weighed and full speed was ordered. Not three minutes had passed ere the race was on. The morning--for it was close on four o’clock--was still flooded with moonlight, and the sea was, perhaps, a trifle rougher than before midnight. When the two vessels had gotten well under way, it was seen that the _Seneca_ had the better of the Pinkerton tug by about an eighth of a mile in the start. Again, the infernal one had scored a point for graft as against honesty. Captain Irving patted Phil Farley on the back and smiled gleefully. On dashed the police boat, throwing the spray over half her length, as she plunged through swell after swell and received each time a shaking from stem to stern.
“She’s doing well,” shouted the captain down to the engineer in charge. “Crowd on all steam--remember the reward--a hundred to every man if we win over them hounds behind us.”
Meanwhile the Pinkertons were forcing the race, too. The big tug was ugly to look at, but in her machinery and tenacity to break through the swells there lay danger to Irving’s success. Presently--perhaps fifteen minutes after the start--the tug showed certain and startling gain on the police boat. Irving was the first to discover it, and the glee with which he had taken the previous conditions was suddenly turned into concern. The ship’s lights were fully two miles distant yet, and if the race continued under the existing conditions, the Pinkertons would win beyond doubt. Irving had erred in estimating the speeding qualities of the tug. Something must be done. He began to fume and curse--at which he was proficient--and wondered if it were forgotten that rewards had been offered to all hands if victory came to the _Seneca_.
“I’ll double them!” he cried down to the engineer. “Put on every pound of steam you’ve got. More speed!”
The engineer gritted his teeth, realized that the boiler was doing all and more than it should do, and that the furnace grates were white-hot, despite the fact that the ash-pan was clean and well wet down.
“More speed down there,” repeated Irving, an oath puncturing every sentence. “Crowd on steam; I mean to blow this boat to hell, but I’ll get there.”