Far down the Narrows, and close to the western shore, there was a momentary gleam of light through the rift in the mist, as though a smoker were holding a match to his pipe in his cupped hands. Then the light was swallowed up in darkness. “We were wrong about the sound of that motor,” said the Chief. “They must be slipping along the western shore. We must head them off. Call the other boats quick!” The Chief turned to the steersman. “Hard about!” he called. “Wait!” cried Willie. “That might be a light ashore. Or they might be trying to fool us. It isn’t likely they would come up the west bank. They’d surely meet boats anchored off Quarantine. And I’m certain the motor we heard was on this side of the river.” “Never mind,” called the Chief to the steersman. “Keep her steady.” “Hold your message, Willie. Let each boat keep her place in line and close in if a rum runner is discovered.” Willie stepped to his instrument. But before he could clamp his head ’phones on, the roar of motors came loud and distinct. This time there could be no mistake. The sounds were on the east side of the river, and there was more than one motor exploding. “They’re coming along this bank,” shouted Willie. “I hear several motors.” “Call in the fleet,” shouted back the Chief. Willie flashed out the order. “Close in toward the east bank.” Instantly each boat replied. The _Surveyor_ quickened her pace and headed farther inshore. With straining eyes her crew stared into the dark. The Chief swept the surface of the tossing waters with a powerful night glass. Suddenly a cry burst from his lips. “I see them. They’re close ashore and coming like the wind. Crowd on all speed. We must cut them off. Man your searchlight.” Plainer and plainer came the roar of the speeding rum runners. “Dead ahead,” called the Chief to the steersman. “If we’re fast enough we’ll cut them off. Turn on your searchlight, a little off the starboard bow.” Suddenly a dazzling beam of light shot across the waves. A moment it swept back and forth across the foaming water. Then it came to rest. Three power boats in close formation were tearing through the surging seas. “Where’s the fourth?” cried Willie. “Port your helm,” ordered the Chief, “or they will get by us.” With every ounce of power they possessed, the roaring rum runners were striving to pass the Surveyor. At full speed the little patrol boat was cutting for shore to head them off. Closer and closer to the shore line ventured the speeding smugglers. “Gad!” cried the Chief. “In another minute we’ll run them ashore.” The distance was greater than he judged. In another minute the foremost rum runner was passing the _Surveyor’s_ bow like a race horse. Her companions were close to her flanks. Not a dozen yards separated the flying smugglers from the shore, but it was enough, for the tide was at flood. The _Surveyor_ was still half a cable’s length away. “They are going to make it,” shouted the Chief. “Get your guns.”