Nor was the Chill or any man aboard damaged when at last she rounded the bend of river that shielded her from the searchlight.

“I’ll have you in Panuco town in less’n three hours, ... if we don’t hit a log,” Peter leaned back and shouted in Wemple’s ear.  “And if we do hit driftwood, I’ll have you in the swim quicker than that.”

Chill II tore her way through the darkness, steered by the tow-headed youth who knew every foot of the river and who guided his course by the loom of the banks in the dim starlight.  A smart breeze, kicking up spiteful wavelets on the wider reaches, splashed them with sheeted water as well as fine-flung spray.  And, in the face of the warmth of the tropic night, the wind, added to the speed of the boat, chilled them through their wet clothes.

“Now I know why she was named the Chill,” Habert observed betwixt chattering teeth.

But conversation languished during the nearly three hours of drive through the darkness.  Once, by the exhaust, they knew that they passed an unlighted launch bound down stream.  And once, a glare of light, near the south bank, as they passed through the Toreno field, aroused brief debate as to whether it was the Toreno wells, or the bungalow on Merrick’s banana plantation that flared so fiercely.

At the end of an hour, Peter slowed down and ran in to the bank.

“I got a cache of gasoline here—­ten gallons,” he explained, “and it’s just as well to know it’s here for the back trip.”  Without leaving the boat, fishing arm-deep into the brush, he announced, “All hunky-dory.”  He proceeded to oil the engine.  “Huh!” he soliloquized for their benefit.  “I was just readin’ a magazine yarn last night.  ’Whose Business Is to Die,’ was its title.  An’ all I got to say is, ‘The hell it is.’  A man’s business is to live.  Maybe you thought it was our business to die when the Topila was pepper-in’ us.  But you was wrong.  We’re alive, ain’t we?  We beat her to it.  That’s the game.  Nobody’s got any business to die.  I ain’t never goin’ to die, if I’ve got any say about it.”

He turned over the crank, and the roar and rush of the Chill put an end to speech.

There was no need for Wemple or Davies to speak further in the affair closest to their hearts.  Their truce to love-making had been made as binding as it was brief, and each rival honored the other with a firm belief that he would commit no infraction of the truce.  Afterward was another matter.  In the meantime they were one in the effort to get Beth Drexel back to the safety of riotous Tampico or of a war vessel.

It was four o’clock when they passed by Panuco Town.  Shouts and songs told them that the federal detachment holding the place was celebrating its indignation at the landing of American bluejackets in Vera Cruz.  Sentinels challenged the Chill from the shore and shot at random at the noise of her in the darkness.