"Only an hour until sunset, though," Auntie remarks.
"I suppose," suggests Rupert, "we could change our course after dark
and slip into Miami Bay."
"No," says Old Hickory, waggin' his head stubborn. "We will hold our
course right down through Florida Straits. We ought to make Key West
by morning, if we're not over-hauled."
"If!" I whispers to Vee.
Dinner was announced, but for once there's no grand rush below. Mr.
Ellins orders a hand-out meal to be passed around, and we fills up on
sandwiches while keepin' watch on that black smudge, which is creepin'
closer and closer. Don't take long for it to get dark down in this
part of the country after the sun is doused, but the stars shine mighty
bright. On the water, too, it seems so much lighter.
Then the _Petrel_ turns on a couple of search-lights. Course, we was
'way out of range, but somehow it seemed like them swingin' streaks of
light was goin' to reach out and pick us up any minute. For an hour or
so we watched 'em feelin' for us, gettin' a bit nearer, reachin' and
swingin', with the _Agnes_ strainin' herself to slip away, but losin' a
little of her lead every minute.
Must have been near ten o'clock when Rupert announces cheerful: "By
George! She's falling behind.
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