Just before dark the special workmen went ashore.  Again Andrews and Eph prepared a meal, which was eaten.

Then followed a restless two hours, waiting until the town was asleep, for the gasoline tanks were filled, and all was ready for the first turn of the drive-wheel below.

It was after half-past ten when Pollard at last said: 

“Go below and get the gasoline engines started, Andrews.”

The boys followed him below to watch the work.  Messrs. Farnum and Pollard, too, were soon below, for they wanted to observe the work of the air compressors and the dynamos.  The work had to be started by lantern light, but, within ten minutes, it was possible to turn on electric lights below.

“Everything is working as perfectly as though the boat had been in commission a year,” remarked the inventor, hoarsely.  His suspense was almost painful to watch.

“Everything is all ready for a start, isn’t it.  Andrews?” inquired Mr. Farnum.

“Everything appears to be, sir, so far as the power’s concerned,” replied Andrews.  “But I’m going to stay by the engine.  I want to be on hand to watch whatever might happen.”

Power was applied to raise the anchor.

“You take the wheel, Benson, since you had it during the launching,” said the yard’s owner.  “Somers, stand by on deck.  Hastings, you go below and stand with Mr. Andrews.”

“Give the go-ahead at slow speed,” directed David Pollard, nervously.

So Jack gave the speed wheel a small turn, then rested both hands on the steering wheel.  Without an unnecessary sound, and with no outer lights showing, as yet, the “Pollard” was headed for the mouth of the little harbor, Mr. Farnum standing by as pilot.

Just as they passed out on to the edge of the ocean Farnum himself turned on the electric sailing lights.

“She rides the water easily,” remarked Pollard, almost in a whisper.  “I wonder how she can go at speed?”

“We’ll find out, now we’ve got clear seaway ahead,” replied Mr. Farnum.  “Benson, turn on a few miles more.”

Quickly obeying the impulse of her twin-propellers, the “Pollard.” began to dance over the waves.

“Say, but she’s the fine, light-riding boat!” cried the builder, joyously.  “Just as I thought she would be.  Give her more speed, Benson.”

So the speed was turned on, more and more.  The “Pollard,” as far as those aboard, could see, had the whole of that part of the ocean to herself.  She was still headed due east, and was moving at last at the rate of seventeen of the twenty-one miles an hour of which she was believed to be capable.

Even at this rapid gait the semi-immersed “Pollard” rode splendidly, with hardly any vibration noticeable.

As he watched, instead of feeling the thrill of triumph that influenced the crew, David Pollard’s face was whitening with anxiety.  His face, almost ghastly in its look, was deeply furrowed.