"Sure thing, is it?" persisted Somers.
"Sure--only don't talk too much," growled young Benson.
It was the grit, the dogged determination of the born commander--the
natural leader of men.
A moment later Jack turned a white face toward the shipbuilder.
"Mr. Farnum, tell Hal he'll have to pour the oil in faster. We've got
to have more speed."
Farnum did not even wait for the second sentence. He dived below. All
of a sudden the "Hastings" was seen to take a notable leap forward. Then
she settled down to a more rapid, steady gait.
Just inside the conning tower Jacob Farnum stood again. In his right
hand he clutched a doubled-up handkerchief, with which he made frequent
dabs at his face.
The shipbuilder knew that the present speed, with its dangerous
overheating of the engines, spelled blank disaster if continued for long.
Hal Hastings, down below, standing like a white wraith beside his
engines, realized the same thing.
So, too, did Jack Benson, the young skipper, for whom, in this mad
moment, there was but one word in the language--"win!"
Eph didn't stop to realize it.
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