And Mittel's "twice as fast" was undoubtedly an exaggeration, anyhow.
A minute more passed, another--and then, astern, Jimmie Dale caught the racket from the exhaust of a high-powered engine, and a white streak seemed to shoot out upon the surface of the water from where, obscured now, he placed the wharf.

A quarter-mile lead, roughly four hundred yards; yes, he had as much as that--but that, too, was very little.
He bent over his engine, coaxing it, nursing it to its highest efficiency; his eyes strained now upon the point ahead, now upon his pursuers behind.

He was running with the wind, thank Heaven! or the small boat would have had a further handicap--it was rolling up quite a sea.
The steering gear, he found, was corded along the side of the boat, permitting its manipulation from almost any position, and, abruptly now, Jimmie Dale left the engine to rummage through the little locker in the stern of the boat.

But as he rummaged, his eyes held speculatively on the boat astern.

She was gaining unquestionably, steadily, but not as fast as he had feared.