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.