e thick of the battle ere
rushing to reclaim them.

On we speed, till the trees on the bank seem to fly back past us; and
round the point to see the "Senator," just turning another curve!

On still, faster than ever, with every glass on board jingling in its
frame; every joint and timber trembling, as though with a congestive
chill!

Still the black demons below ply their fires with the fattest logs, and
even a few barrels of rosin are slyly slipped in; the smoke behind us
stretched straight and flat from the smoke-stack.

Now we enter a straight, narrow reach with the chase just before us.
Faster--faster we go till the boat fairly rocks and swings from side to
side, half lifted with every throb of the engine. Closer and closer we
creep--harder and harder thump the cylinders--until at last we close;
our bow just lapping her stern! So we run a few yards.

Little by little--so little that we test it by counting her windows--we
reach her wheel--pass it--lock her bow, and run nose and nose for a
hundred feet!

The stillness of death is upon both boats; not a sound but the creak
and shudder as they struggle on. Suddenly the hard voice of our old
pilot crashes through it like a broadaxe:

"Good-bye, Sen'tor! I'll send yer a tug!"--and he gives his bell a
merry click.

Our huge boat gives one shuddering throb that racks her from end to
end--one plunge--and then she settles into a steady rush and forges
rapidly and evenly ahead. Wider and wider grows the gap; and we wind
out of sight with the beaten boat five hundred yards behind us.

The cigar I take from my mouth, to make way for the deep, long sigh, is
chewed to perfect pulp. A wild, pent-up yell of half-savage triumph
goes up from the crowded deck; such as is heard nowhere besides, save
where the captured work rewards the bloody and oft-repeated charge.
Cheer after cheer follows; and, as we approach the thin column of smoke
curling over the trees between us, Styles bestrides the prostrate form
of the still sleeping professor and makes the calliope yell and shriek
that classic ditty, "Old Gray Horse, come out of the Wilderness!" at
the invisible rival.

I doubt if heartier toast was ever drunk than that the colonel gave the
group around the wheel-house, when Styles "stood" the wine plighted the
pilot. The veteran was beaming, the glengary sat jauntily on one side;
and his voice actually gurgled as he said:

"Egad! I'd miss my dinner for a week for this! Gentlem