playing about her
lips.

The firing became brisker as the distance lessened between the two
boats, while the enemy bullets became wilder and more desultory. Dickie
ceased firing and turned to the man at the wheel.

"It's Rossi with the _Roma_. He's getting under way."

She flung out an arm pointing in the direction of the stubby-nosed point
which lay across the little bay. "Head for the arch, Tom. We'll cut him
off." Pointing to the fleeing boat she explained to Gregory: "He's
almost in shoal water right now. To get out he's got to follow the
channel. It's dead low tide and he'll have to make a big bend to get
out. We'll cut across and head him off. He has the speed of us and a
quarter of a mile lead. But he has farther to go. If he opens up he's
liable to pile up on the rocks. It's about an even bet he'll make it for
he's clever. But if he does we'll be right on top of him when he comes
out. Then I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry."

The _Petrel_ altered her course while she was speaking and sped off at
a tangent. The _Roma_, dashing shoreward, turned and angled sharply,
running parallel to her pursuer.

"He's sure pounding her," the girl observed as she noted the increasing
distance which separated the two boats. "If he holds that clip when he
comes to that figure S channel, he'll never make the turns." She shut
her jaw tighter. "Cut in a little closer, Tom," she ordered. "We'll make
him take all the chances there are."

Gregory climbed to the top of the engine-house and watched the _Roma_
dodging among the rocks like a frightened rabbit. Dickie Lang was poised
in the bow like a figurehead, one foot resting on the rail. Her hair,
jerked from her cap by the fingers of the dawn-wind, streamed out behind
her in a shower of dull red gold. Her eyes were shining with the joy of
the chase.

"He's almost at the turn," she called back. "He'll never make it on an
outgoing tide. He's got to slow up. If he does, we've got him. If he
doesn't----"

She was interrupted by a muffled exclamation from the man at the wheel.
The _Roma's_ bow was rising from the water. For an instant she planed
like a high-powered racing-boat. Then, as if exhausted by the chase, she
settled slowly to rest in the white water, her masts angling sharply
toward the beach.

"High and dry on mussel rocks," Dickie Lang announced. "It's a flood
tide to-day and with the big ground swell she hasn't a chance."

As they neared the wreck t