He had no idea what sort of a boat he had purchased, and he could see that the Englishman’s yacht had a rakish, saucy look, as if it might be able to show him a clean pair of heels in a fair breeze.
Under Frank’s directions, the sails were trimmed and the Greyhound close hauled, as he wished to see how near he could run to the wind without falling off.
Although the wind was unfavorable, as it was not steady, coming in gusts now and then, Frank waited till fair headway had been obtained, and then had Barney luff till the course was close into the wind, which was held long enough to convince him that the Greyhound did not jibe easily.
“Good!” he exclaimed, with satisfaction. “I was afraid she might prove cranky. Hold her as close as you can, Barney, and not let her yaw. I believe she is a dandy against the wind. If she proves all right before the wind, we’ll give Lord Stanford a hot little run of it.”
CHAPTER VII – THE STORM
After a while Frank went below to examine the interior of the yacht. He found it very comfortable and well furnished with all necessities and not a few luxuries.
“She’s a little boat,” he said; “but she’s a peach! There won’t be any room to spare on board, but we’ll manage to get along somehow. It is plain she was built for not more than five or six, and there are eight of us.”
Bart Hodge came down.
“By Jove!” he said, dropping on a cushioned seat, “I am feeling better, don’t you know. I hated to sail for Honolulu, and now we’ll soon be so far from San Francisco that there’ll not be much danger of arrest. I want to stick by you, Merry.”
“And I hope we’ll be able to hang together, old fellow,” assured Frank. “You have been beating about for yourself far too long.”
“I know it – I can see it now. It’s lucky you turned up just as you did, for I was going to the dogs.”
Frank examined the wardrobe, and a cry of satisfaction came from him.
“Look here!” he exclaimed. “Here are a number of yachting suits. Perhaps we can dig out suits for all of us.”
They overhauled the clothing, and Frank and Bart soon found suits which fitted them very well. In fact, Merriwell was so well built that he obtained a splendid fit, and remarkably handsome he appeared in the cap, short jacket and light trousers of a yachtsman.
“We are strictly in it,” he smiled, surveying Bart. “I’ll go on deck and send the others down for suits, while you remain here and assist them in the selections. I want to keep my eye on Lord Stanford, anyway.”
So Frank ascended the companion way, and soon took Barney’s place at the helm, sending him and Bruce below.
The boys were much surprised to see Merriwell appear in a yachting suit, and he explained that he had purchased everything on board the Greyhound, which included the suits in the wardrobe, as they plainly were not all Chandler’s personal property, having been designed for men of different build.
“Vale, uf dot don’d peat der pand!” muttered the Dutch boy. “Uf dere peen a suit der lot in dot vill fit me, I vill show der poys vat a dandy sailors der Dutch makes. Yaw!”
Barney soon returned to the deck, having found a very good fit, but he said Bruce was having more difficulty.
“Begorra! there wur a fat mon on borrud, an’ he’s lift a suit thot will fit this Dutch chase,” grinned the Irish lad.
“Why you don’d drop id callin’ me dot names, Barney!” cried Hans. “I don’t like dot, you pet!”
The other lads went below to see what they could find in the way of clothes as Frank sent them, Toots being the last.
Every boy found a suit, although in some cases the clothes were too loose. Hans came swelling on deck, wearing a suit with the legs of the trousers turned up several inches and the wrists of the coat sleeves rolled back.
“Say!” he grinned; “I vos a pird! Did you efer seen der peat me of now, I don’t know?”
Toots had discovered an ordinary sailor’s suit, with white anchors worked upon it, and he was proud as a peacock.
The very first leg across had carried them out past Black Point, upon which Fort Mason frowned down upon them when they swung close under the shore and went about on the other tack.
At first the Greyhound gained on the Fox, as Merry could see; but as Lord Stanford’s yacht approached the open ocean she found a stronger breeze and danced along in a lively manner.
Other vessels were in the narrows, but there was plenty of room for them all.
Frank had brought a marine glass from below, and he used it to watch the Fox, having permitted Barney to take the helm again.
Merry could see Lord Stanford standing on the deck near the companion way, talking to one of his men. From the manner of the Englishman, it was apparent that he did not suspect he was being pursued.
“So much the better,” muttered the new owner of the Greyhound. “If he does not catch on right away we may be able to overhaul him and lay alongside without being suspected.”
He watched the Fox till it shot out past Fort Point and disappeared beyond the point of land on which the fort was located.
“So they are bound southward,” muttered Merry. “Ten to one they are going down the coast to Santa Cruz – possibly to Santa Barbara, although that is quite a cruise.”
Half an hour later the Greyhound ran out past Fort Point, and the Fox was discovered far away along the coast, steadily bearing to the south.
“We’re after you, my boy,” muttered Frank. “I don’t believe you’ll be able to run away from us in a hurry.”
There was a heavy swell on – an “old say,” Barney called it. It was seen that the Fox was rolling a great deal.
“They are sure to hug the coast pretty close,” Merriwell decided. “I don’t believe Lord Stanford cares about getting far from land in that boat. The Greyhound will sail anywhere he can go.”
It became a steady sail to the south, and Frank cracked on every stitch of canvas, hoping to come up with the Fox hand-over-hand. In this he was disappointed, although it was plain that they gained somewhat.
The afternoon sun sank lower and lower. Toots was appointed steward, and prepared a meal from the supply of provisions on board.
At sunset the Fox was seen rounding a distant point of land and making into a bay.
“I rather think she means to stop there to-night,” said Frank.
He examined the chart and decided that it was Half-moon Bay.
“If the wind holds,” he declared, “we will come upon them there to-night.”
But as the sun sank in a reddish haze that seemed like a conflagration far out on the open ocean, the wind died entirely and the Greyhound lay becalmed, rolling helplessly on the “old sea.”
“But it’s a good bit av a brase we’ll be afther havin’ before mawnin’,” Barney declared. “Oi nivver saw th’ sun go down thot way when it didn’t poipe up lather on.”
The Irish lad was right. Frank believed this, and he ordered everything made tight, while both mainsail and jib was double-reefed, and the topsails taken in.
“I don’t see the good of all this work,” grumbled Diamond. “Here we are rolling around without a breath of wind, and yet we’re taking in sail as if it were blowing a hurricane.”
Frank paid no attention to Jack, who, in a most astonishing manner, had developed into a grumbler since starting out on the bicycle tour across the continent.
Barney, however, was not pleased