For a full mile the yacht zigzagged from one side of the road to the other. Eves handled the sheet very smartly, but soon found it hopeless to attempt to cope at once with the gustiness of the wind and the sudden swerves of the yacht, and finally contented himself with letting the boom swing freely within a narrow circle, fearing every moment that a lurch would capsize them all. Another turn in the road again gave them the wind; the yacht darted forward on a straight course, and the Irishman reported in high glee that the green car, grunting like Patsy O’Halloran’s pig and snorting like Mike Grady’s bull, was dropping behind as fast as she could run. "What’s the time?" Templeton called suddenly over his shoulder. "Nine minutes to the hour," replied the Irishman, consulting his watch. "Will we do it?" Now that the exciting part of the race was apparently over, he had become alive to business. Twelve o’clock was the hour named for the lodging of tenders with the camp commandant; "and with the likes of the Army," he said, "you might be done if so be you was half a wink late. It’s not that I’ve a word to say in favour of any matter of punctuality in the Army; but they’re the way of making a mighty fuss over trifles. It was told me the name they put to it is red tape." "We’ll do it," said Templeton, "provided, first, the petrol lasts out the hill ahead; second, there aren’t any lorries in the way. But in any case we must run it fine, you know. You don’t want Noakes or Saunders to get in at all, I take it." "Sorra a bit." "Would they tender higher than you?" asked Eves. "They might." "What a pity we didn’t give Noakes that message, Bob. Some one at the camp wanted to give him the tip to cut his tender; there was no other to hand." "The like of that, now, and me having the name of an honest man! Will I have time enough to write a word or two with the stump of a pencil? I have my tender in my pocket folded." "Better let it alone; we’ll keep Noakes off. He’s still rattling along, Bob; do we get the wind up the hill?" "I’m afraid not. The road takes an awkward turn; just ahead there, you see. We’ll have to rely on the petrol, and trust to luck." The yacht rounded the turn, and the hill came in view—a short sharp spur about a quarter-mile in length. In a trice they dowsed the sails. Templeton switched on the engine, intending to rush the incline. Looking behind somewhat anxiously now, the Irishman declared that the green car was barging on like a mad steam engine. Roaring like a furnace, it seemed to leap over the ground, overhauling the yacht yard by yard until it was three-parts up the hill. Then the clamour suddenly ceased. "Begor, she’s stopped," cried the Irishman, exultantly. "Big ends dropped off," said Templeton, grinning at Eves over his shoulder. "I gave him fair warning."