svelte form is outlined in a gown of navy blue; the beautiful face is framed in a golden aureole of wavy locks; the matchless blue eyes glisten with unwonted excitement, and a delicate color tints her cheek. It is not strange that Van Zandt divides his time between the race and his fair passenger.
Even pale, stern-faced Cyrus Felton has for the nonce became stirred by the infectious excitement, and with a zest that he has not manifested for years he watches the unavailing efforts of the warship to overhaul the pleasure craft.
"Isn't there more and blacker smoke pouring from the America's stacks?" inquires Miss Hathaway, as the owner of the Semiramis returns from a brief interview with the engineer, with the cheery assurance that the engines are running as smoothly as if the yacht were moving at quarter-speed.
"She is surely making more smoke and, if I mistake not, more speed," answers Van Zandt, a shade of anxiety replacing his almost boyish enthusiasm. "Mr. Beals, what think you of it?" turning to the executive officer; "is she gaining on us?"
"She has just put on her forced draught, sir, and is now running at her top speed. She is gaining, now, but"
Without finishing the sentence the captain presses the electric bells which communicate with the engine-room. It is soon apparent that the yacht has not until now reached the limit of her speed. The regular vibrations that mark the revolutions of the twin shafts become one prolonged shiver, and the black hull is hurled through the water at incredible speed.
The effect becomes noticeable in short order. The white mass astern grows "fine by degrees and beautifully less," and as Capt. Beals closes his glass with a snap he remarks, complacently: "She'll be hull down in an hour or two if she doesn't blow out a cylinder head before that time."
Just about this time Van Zandt and Manada go below and reappear a few moments later with a closely rolled
