ed Orme, "we are going to ram you."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed the girl suddenly. "We mustn't drown him."

"We shan't," said Orme. "But we will give him a scare." Then, in a louder
voice: "Do you hear?"

The only reply was the tapping of metal on metal. The Japanese, it
seemed, was still trying to find out what was wrong with his motor.

"Well, then," Orme said to Porter, "we'll have to try it. But use low
speed, and be ready to veer off at the last minute."

"He'll try to fend with the boathook," said Porter.

"If he does, I'll get him."

"How?"

"Lasso." Orme picked up a spare painter that was stored under the seat,
and began to tie a slip-noose.

The girl now spoke. "I suppose we shall have to do it," she said. "But I
wish there were a less dangerous, a less tragic way."

Hardly knowing what he did, Orme laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
"It will be all right, dear," he whispered.

If the word embarrassed her, the darkness covered her confusion.

Porter had started the motor, setting it at a low speed, and now he was
steering the boat in a circle to gain distance for the charge.

"I've lost the other boat," exclaimed Orme, peering into the darkness.

"She's off there," said Porter. "You can't see her, but I know the
direction."

He swung the launch around and headed straight through the night.

"Hold on tight," Orme cautioned the girl, and, coiling his lasso, he went
to the bow.

The launch moved steadily forward. Orme, straining his eyes in the
endeavor to distinguish the other boat, saw it at last. It lay a few
points to starboard, and Porter altered the course of the launch
accordingly.

"Make for the stern," called Orme, "and cripple her propeller, if you
can."

Another slight change in the course showed that Porter understood.

As the lessening of the distance between the two boats made it possible
to distinguish the disabled speeder more clearly, Orme saw that the
Japanese was still tinkering with the motor. He was busying himself as
though he realized that he had no hope of escape unless he could start
his boat.

Narrower, narrower, grew the intervening gap of dark water. Orme braced
himself for the shock. In his left hand was the coiled painter; in his
right, the end of the ready noose, which trailed behind him on the
decking. It was long since he had thrown a lariat. In a vivid gleam of
memory he saw at that moment the hot, dusty New Mexican corral, the low
adobe buildings, the lumbe