When the point had been rounded, Radway’s heart gave a leap. Above the pounding of the surf, above the thrum of the speed boat’s engine, he could hear another motor and he knew that Docksee’s dory must be on the way back. A moment later he could make out her running lights. Both the red and the green were visible, and that clinched it. The Coast Guardsmen were returning.
Lazzaro saw the lights at the same instant.
“We just got away in time!” he ejaculated. “That’s the Sandy Point dory comin’ in, and they just got a new rum-chaser engine in her. She’s good for thirty miles an hour.”
Out of the darkness of the open cockpit came Dopey Moe Buxbaum’s raspy voice, jeering again.
“What’s thirty? We do close to forty.”
“We better,” said Lazzaro. “The dory mounts a gun.”
“They’ve got a swell chance of hitting anything to-night. Don’t they have to see us first?”
Buxbaum had come forward. Radway could make out his thin stooping figure alongside the box that housed the engine.
“Where’s the snoop?” he demanded.
“Right here next to me — sittin’ at the wrong end of his own gat.”
“Pretty near time to get rid of him, hey?”
“Bum time to risk a shot.”
“Who said anything about shooting?”
“Then what?”
Buxbaum came closer, chuckling crazily, and Radway surmised he had been getting fresh inspiration from the needle. When he spoke again that was a certainty.
“We get rid of him pirate style, see? When we get out a little farther, we tie the spare anchor to him and he walks the plank.”
“Get sensible!” snapped Lazzaro. “That’s the coke talking. Hey, Burke! Shut off that engine before them birds in the dory hear it.”
Somebody aft obeyed him. A switch snapped and the engine died. But Dopey Moe Buxbaum wasn’t giving up his fantastic idea.
“I know my stuff,” he insisted. “Got the old plank right ready here. It’ll be the first official plank-walking since Captain Kidd went to live on a farm. Then he can walk on home if he wants — and if he can!”
He was down on his hands and knees then, pulling at a loose floor board. As it came up, heavy fumes billowed out of the bilge and started Radway coughing. Some one on the other side of the cockpit struck a match and held it under cupped hands to a cigarette.
“Douse that light, Karger!” barked Lazzaro. “Want a pound of lead landing on your neck?”
It seemed to Radway miraculous that the tiny flame, no sooner kindled than extinguished, should have been visible across a couple of miles of water. But evidently those in the dory had seen it, for at once a searchlight flashed into action and swept the sea with an exploring white finger that finally found and hovered on the speed boat.
For a moment Radway had a clear view of the grim, tense group surrounding him; then the engine roared and the dope-runner leaped forward out of the searchlight’s beam. The light swung in a new arc and again located the fugitive craft. Far astern, there was a thump like the pounding of a base drum and a warning shot went skipping across the speed boat’s bow.
The dory had changed her course. Her searchlight bounced on the quartering seas as she squared away to the stern chase. The dope-runner was traveling wide open in a lather of spray. Radway had ridden in racing automobiles, but the speed boat seemed to be faster than any of them. She had a heartbreaking edge on the dory. That was evident within a couple of minutes. Another shot came from the Coast Guard gun and flopped astern; already the dory had been left out of range.
Radway figured then that his moment had come to take the long chance. He unbuttoned the rubber coat and started to inch forward along the thwart. Instantly the muzzle of the police positive poked him again.
“Don’t jump now,” snarled Lazzaro. “We’ll tell you when.”
“It won’t be long,” said Buxbaum.
He had the floor board up and was laying it across the narrow deck, wedging one end under the heavy hinged cover of the engine box.
“Where are you, Burke?” he called. “Bring me that folding anchor and a coil of rope. I’m ready to drop the pilot.”
Radway had managed to wriggle one arm out of the borrowed waterproof. Choked by the vapor from the gasoline floating thickly on the splashing water in the open bilge, he cast despairing eyes astern.
Something had gone wrong with the dory’s searchlight. It had blinked out, and when it failed to come on again it was as if his last friend had passed from the world. It only increased his horror to observe that the dory kept plunging on a straight course, while the dope-runner’s helmsman had taken swift advantage of the situation by swerving sharply to the westward.
That cooked Radway’s goose; he had no illusions to the contrary. Inwardly he cursed the light that had failed — and Fate responded to the cursing with a final gibe. As the dory raced blindly out to sea, the speed boat’s engine sputtered and died. A foot came down on the electric starter while the smuggling craft was losing way, but the dead motor refused to start.
The man who had started forward at Buxbaum’s command ripped out an oath. Profanely he announced the discovery that some blistering half-wit had opened a valve in the fuel line, and Radway dully realized then how all that gasoline had got into the bilge.
His eyes still strained after the running lights of the dory. It seemed that those aboard her already suspected the dope-runner’s trick. He saw first her green light on the starboard thwart, and then the red light to port as she circled aimlessly in a futile effort to pick up the lost trail.
If he only had a rocket, like those makeshift sailors on the schooner yacht! If he had even a little flash lamp like Lazzaro’s to show Docksee and his deep-water men where he was!
Then Radway’s hand, in the pocket of his suit coat, closed on a wooden box of safety matches. Suddenly he was thinking of Karger — of that miracle of a scant quarter-hour ago. Could it possibly be repeated? Would another flame so small — the mere flicker of a burning match — be seen for a second time across that black expanse dividing him from salvation?
Was it worth trying? Well, what could he lose?
His hand came out of the pocket, bringing the matches. He opened the box, drew out a fragile stick, held it poised against the striking surface. Then, hesitant, his nostrils assailed again by the stifling fumes of that deadly free gasoline, he heard himself bursting out in laughter as wild as Dopey Moe Buxbaum’s.
What a rocket he had there under his hand — what a rocket!
A startled yell escaped Lazzaro.
“The guy’s gone nuts on us!”
There didn’t appear to be any doubt of that. Radway was shouting:
“Can you fellows swim? Then get ready to jump! Here goes!”
He leaned forward. The match-head scraped the side of the box. Flaring brightly, the tindery stick dropped in a descending arc into the exposed bilge.
Radway, overboard before his neighbor with the gun knew what was happening, had just struck the water as the loose gasoline ignited. A vivid pillar of flame leaped skyward. It showed him the dope-crew diving in all directions out of the blazing cockpit.
In a twinkling the fire had reached the reserve fuel tank. It let go with a terrific explosion. The speed boat jumped clear of the roller she was riding. In mid-air she went into a thousand pieces, which fell back in a flaming tangle of wreckage that lighted the sea for miles around.
Radway, never too certain of himself in the water at best, had made sure of having a support. He had in fact carried his own improvised life-preserver overside with him; and paddling behind it, he lost no time in getting clear both of the spreading gasoline fire and his recent shipmates.