Captain Scraggs and Mr. Gibney sprang up on the bridge at once,
the latter with Scraggs's long glass up to his eye.
"She was hove to under the lee of the island, and the minute we
came out of the harbour and turned south she come nosin' after
us," said the mate.
"Hum!" muttered Mr. Gibney. "Gasoline schooner. Two masts and
baldheaded. About a hundred and twenty ton, I should say, and
showin' a pretty pair of heels. There's somethin' up for'd--yes--let
me see--ye-e-es, there's two more--_holy sailor! it's a gunboat!_
One of those doggoned gasoline coast patrol boats, and there's the
Federal flag flying at the fore."
"Let's put back to San Diego Bay," quavered Captain Scraggs.
"I'll be durned if I relish the idee o' losin' the _Maggie_."
"Too late," said the philosophical Gibney. "We're in Mexican
waters now, and she can cut us off from the bay. The only thing
we can do is to run for it and try to lose her after dark. Tell
the engineer to crowd her to the limit. There ain't much wind to
speak of, so I guess we can manage to hold our own for a while.
Nevertheless, I've got a hunch that we'll be overhauled. Of
course, you ain't got no papers to show, Scraggs, and they'll
search the cargo, and confiscate us, and shoot the whole bloomin'
crowd of us.
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