His firm muscles, working at their best, shot the little craft ahead.

Nicolas, at the bow oars, did his best to keep up with his chief in the matter of rowing, though the Mexican was neither an oarsman nor an athlete.
"Don't you make out the motor boat's lights yet ?" Tom asked impatiently, after the first long spurt of rowing.
"Not yet, sir," replied the superintendent.

"I shan't miss the light when it shows." A few minutes later the superintendent announced in a low voice: "There's some craft, motionless, just a bit ahead." Tom, without stopping his work at the oars, turned enough to glance forward.
"Why, it's---it's the 'Morton'!" he gasped.
"I believe it is," declared the superintendent, staring keenly at the nearly shapeless black mass ahead.
Tom, with his jaws set close, bent harder than ever at the oars.
"Senor!" wailed Nicolas, gaspingly.

"If you do not go more easily I shall expire for lack of breath.

I cannot keep up with you." Reade fell into a slower, stronger stroke.
"Drop the oars any time you want to, Nicolas," Reade urged.