Blow the Man Down - A Romance of the Coast

"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.