They
had finished the journey in a taxicab, and the finish had been
this--half an hour late! Yet they lingered, with their eyes fixed upon
the disappearing ship.
"I guess there's nothing more we can do," Hobson said at last
grudgingly. "We can lay it up for them on the other side, and we can
talk to her all the way to Liverpool on the wireless, but if there is
any scoop to be made the others'll get it--not us."
"If only we could have got on board!" Crawshay muttered. "It's no use
thinking of a tug, I suppose?"
The American shook his head.
"She's too far out," he replied gloomily. "There's nothing to be hired
that could catch her."
Crawshay's hand had suddenly stolen to his chin. There was a queer
light in his eyes. He clutched at his companion's arm.
"You're wrong, Hobson," he exclaimed. "There is! Come right along with
me. We can talk as we go."
"Are you crazy?" the American demanded.
"Not quite," the other answered. "Hurry up, man."
"Where to?" "To New Jersey. I've got Government orders, endorsed by
your own Secretary of War. It's a hundred to one they won't listen to
me, but we've got to try it."
He was already dragging his companion down the wooden way. His whole
expression had changed. His face was alight with the joy of an idea.
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