That was Mortlake's character; he was a man who could brook no rivalry.
Used all his life to sweep obstacles aside, he would rather have
terminated his career than permit any one to pass him in the race for
first place, no matter in what line that first place might lie.
"Are you going to keep on, Roy?"
The question came as a strip of white beach flashed beneath them, and
Peggy, peering over the edge of the chassis, saw the big Atlantic swells
rolling below them. The thunder of the surf on the beach came clearly to
their ears, even at that height.
"What do you think, Sis? We've got lots of gasoline. The motor is working
without a hitch. I'd hate to turn back now, particularly with that
officer's eyes upon us, as in all probability they are."
"Oh, let's keep on," exclaimed Peggy, casting prudence to the winds. "I
feel like you, Roy. If we turn back now, it would look as if we were
afraid to trust the _Butterfly_ above the ocean, and, after all, it is a
naval contest that we hope to be elected for."
"Forward it is, then," cried Roy exultingly. The tang of the salt wind,
the inspiration of the ocean, had come to him. He felt like a corsair--a
very modern corsair--urging his craft above the ancient sea.
The vessel, whose smoke they had espied at a distance, was quite close to
them now.
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