"I like the look of the Flying Fish pretty well," was the response, "and I'll take you up. You'll have to give me odds, though."

"Oh, certainly," responded the bully, with a confident grin; "twenty-five to thirty, say."

"Make it thirty-five."

"All right; done," said Jack. "You know me, of course; no necessity of putting up the money."

"Oh, not the least," rejoined the other politely, though had he known the state of Jack's finances he might have thought differently.

The bully went about making several bets at similar odds, until finally Bill Bender came up behind him and in a low voice warned him to be careful.

"What are you going to do if we lose?" he breathed. "You haven't got a cent to pay with."

"Oh, it's like taking gum from a busted slot machine," rejoined the bully, with a laugh. "They can't win. We know what their boat can do, and the race is practically conceded to us. Besides--" he placed his hand close to Bill's ear and whispered a few minutes. "I guess that's a bad scheme, eh?" he resumed in a louder tone, though his voice was still pitched too low for those about to hear him. "If it's done right, we'll ram them and it'll never be noticed."

"Hum, I'm not so sure," grunted Bill. "However, if we really perceive we are losing, I don't see what else we are to do. Are you going to steer?"

"Sure. Sam lost his nerve at the last moment--like him, eh? It's a good thing, though, I'm to be at the wheel, because I don't think Sam would have had the courage to carry out my plan."

"Not he," said Bill, with a shrug. "He's got the backbone of a snail."

More of this interesting conversation was cut short by the "bang" of the pistol which warned the contestants of the racing boats to get ready.

"The race for the Hampton Yacht Club's trophy will take place in five minutes!" cried the announcer.

The five contestants cast off from the float and slowly chugged out to a position in the rear of the starting line and behind the committee boat. Then came the nervous work of awaiting the starting gun. The boys had all donned slickers, and the crew of the hydroplane wore rubber coats which covered them completely. A sort of spray hood had been erected over the hydroplane's engines.

"That means she's going to do her best," remarked Rob, pointing to this indication that great speed was expected. "That's what we want to do, too, isn't it?"

At last came the gun that started off the Snark, the Bonita and the Albacore, which were all of about the same speed.

"Our turn next," said Rob, who had previously received his instructions from the committee.

"Well, I'm all ready," said Merritt, nervously twisting a grease cup.

CHAPTER XIII

THE "FLYING FISH" ON HER METTLE

"Bang!"

With a nervous twitch, Rob threw in the first speed clutch, for the engine had been kept running on her neutral speed, and was able to take up way as soon as the propeller began to "bite."

Rapidly the boy increased the speed up to the third "forward," and the Flying Fish darted through the water like a pickerel after a fat frog.

"Bang!" came behind them once more, as the sound of the cheers which greeted them as they shot across the line grew faint.

"Crouch low!" shouted Rob back to his crew. "We'll need every inch of advantage we can get."

The white spray shot in a perfect fountain from the sharp bow of the Flying Fish, and her every frame and plank quivered under the vibration of her powerful engine.

"She's doing better than she ever did!" shouted Merritt to Tubby, who crouched in the center of the boat, ready to take any part in an emergency.

The other nodded and kept his eyes ahead on the white wake of the other three craft.

Suddenly the Albacore began to fall back. As the Flying Fish roared by her, Rob heard a shout of something about "missing fire."

A steady downpour of spray was drenching the occupants of the racer, but they paid scant heed to it. Rob dived in his pockets and put on a pair of goggles. The spray was blinding him. He waved to Tubby to go further astern and keep the rear part of the boat well down when they made the sharp turn at the red buoy.

In an incredibly short time, it seemed, the turning buoy faced them.

Rob set his wheel over and spun the Flying Fish through the rougher water at the mouth of the inlet at as sharp an angle as he dared. In a few seconds more they had pa.s.sed the Snark and the Bonita, which were racing bow and bow. The crew of the Flying Fish, though, knew that both boats had a time allowance over them, so that the mere pa.s.sing didn't mean much, unless they could increase the lead.

Faster and faster the boy's craft forged ahead. A thrill shot through Rob's frame. The Flying Fish was showing what she was made of.

But as he turned his head swiftly he saw that the hydroplane had rounded the stake and was coming down the straight stretch of water like an express train. A great wave of water shot out on either side of her bow. So low in the water had her powerful engines dragged her that she seemed to be barely on the surface, and yet, as the boys knew, she was actually "coasting" over the surface.

Try as he would, Rob could not get an ounce more speed out of the Flying Fish, and as the speedy hydroplane roared by them they heard a mocking shout from her crew.

Rob, more determined than ever to stick it out, sent the Flying Fish plunging at top speed through the wash of the speedy craft, hoping to keep up the distance between them at least equal. But as he saw the hydroplane gradually drawing away and heard the great roar that went up from the thrilled spectators as she shot by the club house, his heart sank.

It looked as if the Plying Fish was beaten. And now the club house loomed near once more.

"Go on, Plying Fish, go on!"

"You've got a time allowance on her!"

"Push along, Rob!"

"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!"

A tumult of other shouts roared in Rob's ears as they tore past the crowded porch.

"Kr-ee-ee-ee-ee!" screamed back Merritt and Tubby, with waves of the hand to the brown uniformed figures they could see perched on every point of vantage.

Suddenly the Flying Fish began to creep up on the hydroplane, which had slowed down for some reason.

"Hurrah! We've got'em now!" shouted Merritt, as he saw, far ahead, Jack and the other two occupants of the seeming winner leaning over the craft's engine, the hood having been raised.

Rob said nothing, but with burning eyes clung to the wheel and shot the Flying Fish straight ahead on her course.

As they thundered past the hydroplane, the slender craft lay almost motionless on the water, with a great cloud of blue smoke tumbling out of her exhausts.

"Looks like they've flooded her cylinder," said Merritt, observing these signs.