“I shouldn’t call it the mildest outdoor sport there was,” says I.

“And the casual way she talks of our being shot at—­as if they’d fire tennis balls!” goes on Vee.

“I didn’t care for that part of the conversation myself,” says I.  “I’m no hero, like Rupert.  If there’s any shootin’ takes place, I’m goin’ to get nervous.  I feel it comin’ on.”

“You don’t think Auntie and Mr. Ellins would let it go that far, do you?” asks Vee.

“It would be just like Auntie to fire back,” says I.  “What’s a navy more or less to her, when she gets her jaw set?”

“I—­I wish I hadn’t come on this old yacht,” says Vee.

“If I could row you ashore,” says I, “I wouldn’t mind stayin’ to keep you company.  Look!  That smoke off there’s gettin’ nearer.”

If Auntie and Old Hickory was pinin’ for thrills, it looked like they was due to get their wish.  Just what would happen in case the Agnes was run down nobody seemed to know.  The only thing our two old sports was interested in just then was this free-for-all race.

Anyway, we had a fine evenin’ for it.  The ocean was as smooth as a full bathtub, and all tinted up in pinks and purples, like one of Belasco’s back drops.  Off over the bow to the right—­excuse me, to the starboard—­a big, ruddy sun was droppin’ slow and touchin’ up the top of a fluffy pile of cottony clouds back of us, that looked like they was balanced right on the edge of things.  Bang in the middle of that peaceful background, though, was this smear of black smoke, and you didn’t have to be any marine dill pickle to tell it was headed our way.

We groups ourselves on the after deck and watches.  Everybody that could annexes a pair of field glasses; but, even with that help, about all you could see was some white foam piled up against a gray bow.  Now and then Rupert announces that she’s gainin’ on us, and Old Hickory nods his head.

“Only an hour until sunset, though,” Auntie remarks.

“I suppose,” suggests Rupert, “we could change our course after dark and slip into Miami Bay.”

“No,” says Old Hickory, waggin’ his head stubborn.  “We will hold our course right down through Florida Straits.  We ought to make Key West by morning, if we’re not over-hauled.”

“If!” I whispers to Vee.

Dinner was announced, but for once there’s no grand rush below.  Mr. Ellins orders a hand-out meal to be passed around, and we fills up on sandwiches while keepin’ watch on that black smudge, which is creepin’ closer and closer.  Don’t take long for it to get dark down in this part of the country after the sun is doused, but the stars shine mighty bright.  On the water, too, it seems so much lighter.

Then the Petrel turns on a couple of search-lights.  Course, we was ‘way out of range, but somehow it seemed like them swingin’ streaks of light was goin’ to reach out and pick us up any minute.  For an hour or so we watched ’em feelin’ for us, gettin’ a bit nearer, reachin’ and swingin’, with the Agnes strainin’ herself to slip away, but losin’ a little of her lead every minute.