"If I could row you ashore," says I, "I wouldn't mind stayin' to keep
you company. Look! That smoke off there's gettin' nearer."
If Auntie and Old Hickory was pinin' for thrills, it looked like they
was due to get their wish. Just what would happen in case the _Agnes_
was run down nobody seemed to know. The only thing our two old sports
was interested in just then was this free-for-all race.
Anyway, we had a fine evenin' for it. The ocean was as smooth as a
full bathtub, and all tinted up in pinks and purples, like one of
Belasco's back drops. Off over the bow to the right--excuse me, to the
starboard--a big, ruddy sun was droppin' slow and touchin' up the top
of a fluffy pile of cottony clouds back of us, that looked like they
was balanced right on the edge of things. Bang in the middle of that
peaceful background, though, was this smear of black smoke, and you
didn't have to be any marine dill pickle to tell it was headed our way.
We groups ourselves on the after deck and watches. Everybody that
could annexes a pair of field glasses; but, even with that help, about
all you could see was some white foam piled up against a gray bow. Now
and then Rupert announces that she's gainin' on us, and Old Hickory
nods his head.
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