“Look ’ere, lads, even hif we do beat ’im to t’ hisland, ’ow are I t’ prewent yer uncle from comin’ ’longside an’ shanghain’ o’ ye hoff aboard e’s own wessel what is such a nifty sailin’ one?”
“Why—why—that’s right,” said Ray helplessly.
“Do the same as you did before, Ray,” said Jack. “I mean, let Mr. Mitchell run the Betsy Anne along the outside of the reef to the opening and then slip through. He won’t dare follow you then.”
“That’s right. Can you put the Betsy Anne through that opening in Cobra Reef? You know the place I mean. About half way up to the lighthouse.”
“I put ’er through every time I pays a call hon Cap’n Eli, which I admits ain’t been often o’ late,” said the lobsterman.
“Good, then beat him to it and put her through this time. He’ll never follow us ’cause he don’t know the channel and he’ll never land on that end of the island again, not after the lamming he got from Big O’Brien, will he, Jack?”
“No, siree,” said Jack.
“Aye, aye, sir, through t’ reef she goes,” said Mitchell.
All attention was settled on the chase after that. The yawl had cut the distance between the two vessels down to half a mile and Hood Island was still two miles off. On sped the boats, the yawl breasting the waves in fine fashion and heeling over to what seemed a perilous angle.
“He keeps canvas on the Fish Hawk,” said Ray. “Wind’s fresh enough to stand a reef. Don’t you think so, Mr. Mitchell?”