The _Nancy Jane_, Captain Sam’s big fishing-boat, named for his wife, and, like that good woman, plump and sturdy of build, and not dashing, was swinging idly at its mooring. They jumped aboard, lifted the tender aboard also, so it would not drag and delay them, ran the mainsail and jib up, cast off, and stood down alongshore. The chase of the _Viking_ had begun. The yacht _Spray_, which had been under way for some minutes, was off about half a mile, heading for the islands. The canoe had already reached the Narrows, a little more than half a mile below, and was not to be seen. The _Nancy Jane_ was doing her best. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns looked at each other, their faces set and anxious. They could hardly speak. Only Henry Burns managed to say, “Keep up your courage, Jack. We’ll get him, yet.” Jack Harvey shook his head, dubiously. “He’s got a long start,” he said; “and you know how the old _Viking_ can sail.” As for Captain Sam, he must have had his own convictions about the relative merits of the _Nancy Jane_ and the _Viking_; but he refrained from expressing them. He merely drew out his pipe and sent up such clouds of smoke that it might have seemed as though the _Nancy Jane_ was propelled by an engine. Tom Harris and Bob White lost little time in reaching the Narrows. At this point, the waters of the Eastern and Western Bays came so near together that only a narrow strip of the island prevented the sea from flowing between and making two islands, instead of one. The boys lifted the canoe on their shoulders, carried across and launched it again in the Western Bay. They had now some six miles of water to cross. Heading somewhat above their destination, so as to allow for the setting of the tide, they proceeded vigorously. With the precision bred of long practice, their paddles cut the water at the same moment; while, under the guidance of Tom’s stern paddle, the canoe sped on an undeviating course, leaving a wake as straight as though a line had been drawn for them to follow. Then, when they came to within the last mile of Bellport, Tom gave the word, and they finished at racing speed. In upon a clean strip of sandy beach they ran; nor had the bow scarcely grated upon the shore, before they were out and were carrying the canoe up above the reach of tide-water, or the wash of any passing boat. Then, still stripped for the race, with arms and shoulders bared, they started on a run for the telegraph office. They had set out at about half-past six, and it was now eight o’clock. Oh, but the minutes seemed hours now. The little office, where the one operator did whatever business came that way, was locked, when they arrived. It was Sunday morning, and the operator was being shaved at a near-by hotel. They fairly dragged him out of the barber’s hands, however, and got him to send their messages: one to Stoneland, another to Boston, and another to Portland. They were brief: