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Updated: May 26, 2025
The Richard dipped with a swerve which threw him violently against the coaming. As he felt the heavy hull sinking down into the water he saw that the Fuor d'Italia had ceased to plane and was settling sluggishly. A snarl of disappointment burst from Mascola's lips as he saw the Richard did not flash across his bow.
Gregory and Dickie Lang looked up from their scrutiny of the small clock on the Richard's dash and smiled: "Two hours and ten minutes to here," Gregory announced. "We can make it easy in two hours and a half, and we've been bucking a head wind and sea all the way over. If the Fuor d'Italia can do this well, Mascola will certainly have to show me." Bronson smiled but made no comment.
"The way things are going now," Bronson observed, "it won't be long before we're building a new boat for Mascola." "What do you mean by that? Has he seen this one?" The boatman shook his head. "You needn't be afraid of that," he answered. "What I meant was that Mascola is hammering the Fuor d'Italia to pieces with his trips to Diablo in that rough water." "Does Mascola go often to Diablo?"
The passage is this: Dell' Inferno: Canto xxiii. 25-27: E quei: 'S'io fossi d'impiombato vetro, L'immagine di fuor tua non trarrei Piu tosto a me, che quella dentro impetro.
When anything went wrong with him, he became moody and vehement: "Non vi maravigliate che io vi abbi scritto alle volte cosi stizosamente, che io ò alle volte di gran passione, per molte cagioni che avengono a chi è fuor di casa." So he writes to his father in 1498.
Acting at once upon Dickie's advice, Gregory saw the wisdom of it at once. His angling course would have put him into the fog before the Fuor d'Italia reached it. Now he would catch Mascola broadside, full on the beam. Or at least at an angle which would drive the heavier hull through the lighter one. With seaman's instinct, Mascola sensed rather than saw the Richard's change of course.
After boarding but one of his boats he had returned with the Fuor d'Italia in the direction of the Hell-Hole Isthmus. He had not been back since. "Is the Curlew still off Northwest Harbor?" inquired Gregory. "Don't know. Haven't tried to reach them. Didn't want to wise these fellows we had anybody else over here.
He made haste to repair the trouble and switched on his running lights. The Fuor d'Italia was too light to take chances of roughing it in the dark. As he worked, he heard a voice hail him. "What do you want?" he demanded angrily. "Damn you, you hit my boat." The lights of the returning motor-boat drew alongside before Gregory answered: "Listen, Mascola.
At length the gray canopy lifted slowly from the water and he caught the outline of the Richard's broad hood rising staunchly above him in the gloom. He smiled grimly at the sight. The motor had not missed a shot since leaving the island. And they were overhauling the Fuor d'Italia. He threw the switch again as his eye caught the gleam of the moonlight ahead. For some moments he listened intently.
She jumped to her feet, her eyes glowing with excitement. Even at the distance she could not be deceived. There was only one other craft about with an exhaust like that. Mascola was fleeing from Diablo in the Fuor d'Italia. She sprang to the hood and began pulling on the anchor-chain. Then she stopped suddenly. The man she loved was still on the island. Perhaps he had been wounded. Maybe killed.
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