“What are you going to do if we lose?” he breathed.  “You haven’t got a cent to pay with.”

“Oh, it’s like taking gum from a busted slot machine,” rejoined the bully, with a laugh.  “They can’t win.  We know what their boat can do, and the race is practically conceded to us.  Besides—­” he placed his hand close to Bill’s ear and whispered a few minutes.  “I guess that’s a bad scheme, eh?” he resumed in a louder tone, though his voice was still pitched too low for those about to hear him.  “If it’s done right, we’ll ram them and it’ll never be noticed.”

“Hum, I’m not so sure,” grunted Bill.  “However, if we really perceive we are losing, I don’t see what else we are to do.  Are you going to steer?”

“Sure.  Sam lost his nerve at the last moment—­like him, eh?  It’s a good thing, though, I’m to be at the wheel, because I don’t think Sam would have had the courage to carry out my plan.”

“Not he,” said Bill, with a shrug.  “He’s got the backbone of a snail.”

More of this interesting conversation was cut short by the “bang” of the pistol which warned the contestants of the racing boats to get ready.

“The race for the Hampton Yacht Club’s trophy will take place in five minutes!” cried the announcer.

The five contestants cast off from the float and slowly chugged out to a position in the rear of the starting line and behind the committee boat.  Then came the nervous work of awaiting the starting gun.  The boys had all donned slickers, and the crew of the hydroplane wore rubber coats which covered them completely.  A sort of spray hood had been erected over the hydroplane’s engines.

“That means she’s going to do her best,” remarked Rob, pointing to this indication that great speed was expected.  “That’s what we want to do, too, isn’t it?”

At last came the gun that started off the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore, which were all of about the same speed.

“Our turn next,” said Rob, who had previously received his instructions from the committee.

“Well, I’m all ready,” said Merritt, nervously twisting a grease cup.

CHAPTER XIII

THE “FLYING FISH” ON HER METTLE

“Bang!”

With a nervous twitch, Rob threw in the first speed clutch, for the engine had been kept running on her neutral speed, and was able to take up way as soon as the propeller began to “bite.”

Rapidly the boy increased the speed up to the third “forward,” and the Flying Fish darted through the water like a pickerel after a fat frog.

“Bang!” came behind them once more, as the sound of the cheers which greeted them as they shot across the line grew faint.

“Crouch low!” shouted Rob back to his crew.  “We’ll need every inch of advantage we can get.”

The white spray shot in a perfect fountain from the sharp bow of the Flying Fish, and her every frame and plank quivered under the vibration of her powerful engine.