'It's Jules, I'll swear,' cried Racksole. 'After him, men. Ten pounds
apiece if we overtake him!'
'Lay down to it now, boys!' said Hazell, and the heavy Customs
boat shot out in pursuit.
'This is going to be a lark,' Racksole remarked.
'Depends on what you call a lark,' said Hazell; 'it's not much of a
lark tearing down midstream like this in a fog. You never know
when you mayn't be in kingdom come with all these barges
knocking around. I expect that chap hid in the dinghy when he first
caught sight of us, and then slipped his painter as soon as I'd gone.'
The boat was moving at a rapid pace with the tide. Steering was a
matter of luck and instinct more than anything else. Every now and
then Hazell, who held the lines, was obliged to jerk the boat's head
sharply round to avoid a barge or an anchored vessel. It seemed to
Racksole that vessels were anchored all over the stream. He
looked about him anxiously, but for a long time he could see
nothing but mist and vague nautical forms. Then suddenly he said,
quietly enough, 'We're on the right road; I can see him ahead.
We're gaining on him.' In another minute the dinghy was plainly
visible, not twenty yards away, and the sculler - sculling frantically
now - was unmistakably Jules - Jules in a light tweed suit and a
bowler hat.
'You were right,' Hazell said; 'this is a lark. I believe I'm getting
quite excited.
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