There was a blur of forms and brass buttons behind Mittel--and Jimmie Dale leaped to the lawn, speeding across it like a deer.
But quick as he ran, Jimmie Dale's brain was quicker, pointing the single chance that seemed open to him.

The motor boat! It seemed like a God-given piece of luck that he had noticed it was like his own; there would be no blind, and that meant fatal, blunders in the dark over its mechanism, and he could start it up in a moment--just the time to cast her off, that was all he needed.
The shouts swelled behind him.

Jimmie Dale was running for his life.

He flung a glance backward.

One form--Mittel, he was certain--was perhaps a hundred yards in the rear.