“No; it’s too late to get aboard—­the last tender is on its way back,” they informed him.  “If you want to go to the ‘outside’ you’ll have to wait for the fleet.  That only means another week, and—­there she blows now.”

A ribbon of white mingled with the velvet from the steamer’s funnel and there came a slow, throbbing, farewell blast.

Glenister’s jaw clicked and squared.

“Quick!  You men!” he cried to the sailors.  “I want the lightest dory on the beach and the strongest oarsmen in the crowd.  I’ll be back in five minutes.  There’s a hundred dollars in it for you if we catch that ship.”

He whirled and spurred up through the mud of the streets.  Bill Wheaton was snoring luxuriously when wrenched from his bed by a dishevelled man who shook him into wakefulness and into a portion of his clothes, with a storm of excited instructions.  The lawyer had neither time nor opportunity for expostulation, for Glenister snatched a valise and swept into it a litter of documents from the table.

“Hurry up, man,” he yelled, as the lawyer dived frantically about his office in a rabbit-like hunt for items.  “My Heavens!  Are you dead?  Wake up!  The ship’s leaving.”  With sleep still in his eyes Wheaton was dragged down the street to the beach, where a knot had assembled to witness the race.  As they tumbled into the skiff, willing hands ran it out into the surf on the crest of a roller.  A few lifting heaves and they were over the bar with the men at the oars bending the white ash at every swing.

“I guess I didn’t forget anything,” gasped Wheaton as he put on his coat.  “I got ready yesterday, but I couldn’t find you last night, so I thought the deal was off.”

Glenister stripped off his coat and, facing the bow, pushed upon the oars at every stroke, thus adding his strength to that of the oarsmen.  They crept rapidly out from the beach, eating up the two miles that lay towards the ship.  He urged the men with all his power till the sweat soaked through their clothes and, under their clinging shirts, the muscles stood out like iron.  They had covered half the distance when Wheaton uttered a cry and Glenister desisted from his work with a curse.  The Roanoke was moving slowly.

The rowers rested, but the young man shouted at them to begin again, and, seizing a boat-hook, stuck it into the arms of his coat.  He waved this on high while the men redoubled their efforts.  For many moments they hung in suspense, watching the black hull as it gathered speed, and then, as they were about to cease their effort, a puff of steam burst from its whistle and the next moment a short toot of recognition reached them.  Glenister wiped the moisture from his brow and grinned at Wheaton.

A quarter of an hour later, as they lay heaving below the ship’s steel sides, he thrust a heavy buckskin sack into the lawyer’s hand.

“There’s money to win the fight, Bill.  I don’t know how much, but it’s enough.  God bless you.  Hurry back!”