Stringer temporarily found himself without words.
“Cutter heading for the open sea, sir,” announced a man in the bows, unnecessarily.
“Quite so,” snapped Rogers. “So are you!”
“We have got them beaten,” said Stringer, a faint note of triumph in his voice. “We’ve given them no chance to land.”
“If this breeze freshens much,” replied Rogers, with sardonic humor, “they’ll be giving us a fine chance to sink!”
Indeed, although Stringer’s excitement had prevented him from heeding the circumstance, an ever-freshening breeze was blowing in his face, and he noted now that, quite mechanically, he had removed his bowler hat at some time earlier in the pursuit and had placed it in the bottom of the boat. His hair was blown in the wind, which sang merrily in his ears, and the cutter, as her course was slightly altered by Rogers, ceased to roll and began to pitch in a manner very disconcerting to the landsman.
“It’ll be rather fresh outside, sir,” said one of the men, doubtfully. “We’re miles and miles below our proper patrol”…
“Once we’re clear of the bank it’ll be more than fresh,” replied Rogers; “but if they’re bound for France, or Sweden, or Denmark, that’s our destination, too!”…
On—and on—and on they drove. The Nore Light lay astern; they were drenched with spray.
