He flung the line into the boat, sprang in after it--and Mittel, looming over him, grasped at the boat's gunwhale.
Both men were panting from their exertions.
"Let go!" snarled Jimmie Dale between clenched teeth.
Mittel's answer was a hoarse, gasping shout to the police to hurry--and then Mittel reeled back, measuring his length upon the wharf from a blow with a boat hook full across the face, driven with a sudden, untamed savagery that seemed for the moment to have mastered Jimmie Dale.
There was no time--not a second--not the fraction of a second.
Desperately, frantically he shoved the boat clear of the wharf.
Once--twice--three times he turned the engine over without success--and then the boat leaped forward.

Jimmie Dale snatched the mask from his face, and jumped for the steering wheel.

The police were rushing out along the wharf.

He could just faintly discern Mittel now--the man was staggering about, his hands clapped to his face.

A peremptory order to halt, coupled with a threat to fire, rang out sharply--and Jimmie Dale flung himself flat in the bottom of the boat.