The Captain turned away with a shrug, and joined his lieutenant on the bridge. “We 'll make for False Middle Island, Mr. Ericsen, just beyond Seventy Mile Point.” “Very well, sir.” Deliberately, very deliberately, the Foote coughed and rumbled northward, and Milwaukee fell away astern. She could not hope to catch the Merry Anne if the southerly breeze should hold. The schooner was running light, and even though she might have made but eighty or ninety miles during the night, she was by this time more than abreast of Milwaukee, and on the east side of the Lake, where she had the advantage in the run for the Straits of Mackinac. “Do you think,” asked Beveridge, when the Captain had gone to the bridge, “that we can overhaul her in the Straits?” Dick shook his head. “Hardly. She has had a pretty steady breeze all night.” “But it isn't very strong.” “It doesn't need to be. There is nothing she likes better than running before just such a breeze. And when the sun is well up, it will blow harder.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “This here is sort of an old tub, too.” Dick sniffed. “You have to watch the bubbles to see which way she's going.” Beveridge studied the chart. “See here,” he said, “where's the Canadian hangout?” Dick laid his finger on the indentation that represented Burnt Cove. “Beyond the--what's this--Duck Island?” “Just beyond the Duck Islands.” “Which place do you think he will make for?” “Well--I can only tell you what I think.” “Go ahead.” “What McGlory will do will be to head for Spencer and take off the old man.” “And then run over to Burnt Cove?” “That's what I think. Burnt Cove is in Canada, you see.” “Yes, I see it is. The boundary line runs down west and south of Manitoulin Island.” “If you want to stop him very bad, you'd better have Captain Sullivan go over to the boundary, close to Outer Duck Island, and then head for Spencer. In that way we shall be approaching Spencer along the line that McGlory must take if he tries to make the cove; and if it is not night, we ought to stand a good chance of sighting him. I figure that we ought to get up there just about in time.” “Of course, he doesn't know that we're so hot on his trail,” mused Beveridge. Dick sniffed again. “If you call this hot.” The Captain returned from the bridge, and Beveridge repeated Dick's suggestion. “How are we to know this schooner?” “She's sky-blue with a white line.” “Is she fast?” “She don't need paddle-wheels to beat this.” This remark did not please Captain Sullivan. He turned away. “I don't know how you feel, Smiley,” said Beveridge, “but I didn't get much sleep last night. Did you?” “Precious little.” Within a few moments, while the colors of the dawn were fading, while the _Foote_ was pounding heavily along northwest by north, the special agents and their two prisoners were sleeping like children.