"There's a tug making for us, sir, signalling us to stop. Shall we
stop?"

Old Druce rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and looked over the stern of
the yacht. He saw a tug, with a banner of black smoke, tearing after
them, heaping up a ridge of white foam ahead of her. Some flags
fluttered from the single mast in front, and she shattered the air with
short hoarse shrieks of the whistle.

"Can she overtake us?"

The captain smiled. "Nothing in the harbour can overtake us, sir."

"Very well. Full steam ahead. Don't answer the signals. You did not
happen to see them, you know!"

"Quite so, sir," replied the captain, going forward.

Although the motion of the _Seahound's_ engines could hardly be
felt, the tug, in spite of all her efforts, did not seem to be gaining.
When the yacht put on her speed the little steamer gradually fell
farther and farther behind, and at last gave up the hopeless chase.
When well out at sea something went wrong with the engines, and there
was a second delay of some hours. A stop at Long Branch was therefore
out of the question.

"I told you Friday was an unlucky day," said the General.

It was eight o'clock that evening before the _Seahound_ stood off