"Conorno of the Bee line, sir," stated Captain Mayo over his shoulder.
Then he ripped out a good, hearty, deep-water oath. According to
appearances, incredible as the situation seemed, the Conorno proposed
to drive the yacht inside the whistler.
Mayo ran to the wheel and yanked the bell-pull furiously. There were
four quick clangs in the engine-room, and in a moment the Olenia began
to quiver in all her fabric. Going full speed ahead, Mayo had called
for full speed astern. Then he sounded three whistles, signaling as the
rules of the road provide. The yacht's twin screws churned a yeasty riot
under her counter, and while she was laboring thus in her own wallow,
trembling like some living thing in the extremity of terror, the big
steamer swept past. Froth from the creamy surges at her bows flicked
spray contemptuously upon Julius Marston and his guests on the
Olenia's quarter-deck. Men grinned down upon them from the high
windows of the steamer's pilot-house.
A jeering voice boomed through a megaphone: "Keep out of the way of the
Bee line! Take the hint!"
An officer pointed his finger at Marston's house flag, snapping from
the yacht's main truck. The blue fish-tail with its letter "M" had
revealed the yacht's identity to searching glasses.
"Better make it black! Skull and cross-bones!" volunteered the megaphone
operator.
On she went down the sea and the Olenia tossed in the turbulent wake
of the kicking screws.
Then, for the first time, Captain Mayo heard the sound of Julius
Marston's voice. The magnate stood up, shook his fist at his staring
captain, and yelled, "What in damnation do you think you are doing?"
It was amazing, insulting, and, under the circumstances as Mayo knew
them, an unjust query. The master of the Olenia did not reply. He was
not prepared to deliver any long-distance explanation. Furthermore, the
yacht demanded all his attention just then. He gave his orders and she
forged ahead to round the whistler.
"Nor'west by west, half west, Billy. And cut it fine!"
The fog had fairly leaped upon them from the sea. The land-breeze
had been holding back the wall of vapor, damming it in a dun bank to
southward. The breeze had let go. The fog had seized its opportunity.
"Saturday Cove for us to-night, Mr. McGaw," said the master. "Keep your
eye over Billy's shoulder."
Then the secretary appeared again on the ladder. This time he did not
bring any "compliments."
"Mr. Marston wants you to report aft at once," he announced, brusquely.