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Updated: May 26, 2025
Dickie mused. "How do you know who it was?" She laughed. "There's only one boat anywhere around here with an exhaust like that," she answered. "That's the Fuor d'Italia. She's the fastest craft in southern waters of her kind. And no one ever runs her but Mascola." Gregory continued to listen to the rapid-fire exhaust as it died away in the distance.
Then the islander ceased his labor at the oar abruptly. "Head out," he whispered. "There's a launch ahead." Mascola's eyes sought to pierce the fog where the dim outline of a motor-boat loomed dark across their course. Then he swung the Fuor d'Italia about and skirting the point rowed doggedly away from the darkened stranger. The Italian's ugly temper was not bettered by the physical exercise.
Gregory questioned quickly. Bronson shrugged his shoulders non-committally. "Can't say," he answered. "Don't know how often he goes out there. But I do know that he brags that his boat can make it in two hours and a half. Diablo's a bad place for the Fuor d'Italia. She's built too light to stand the gaff." The ride to Port Angeles proved all too short.
Mascola hasn't had her very long and he won't have her much longer if he pounds her like that. I wonder what he's going out to Diablo for in such a hurry." Gregory could not answer. But he made up his mind if he was ever going to find out, he would have to have a faster boat than the Fuor d'Italia. Perhaps Joe Barrows could help him out.
The Richard sped on her way at Gregory's command. Then he asked: "What did that sound like to you, Bronson?" The boatman answered promptly: "That was the bird you're looking for. I've heard the Fuor d'Italia's exhaust too many times to guess wrong." Dickie Lang nodded sagely in the darkness, while Bronson volunteered: "I think I know the one that nearly run us down too.
"To-night is a time I must have something more than talk. I want you to go down and join your fleet at once, keep a close watch and if the speed-boat does not arrive within a half-hour, let me know immediately." Mascola made no move to obey. "Gonzolez is laying in at the goose-neck," he said. "I sent Rossi round to join him. The Fuor d'Italia lies in the little cove beyond."
Before the echoes of the two shots had died away Mascola's body slid from the seat and fell in a heap upon the floor. Dickie drew her revolver and sprang to the rail. Sweeping the darkness of the Fuor d'Italia's cockpit with the rays of her light, she drew back. "Bandrist," she whispered to Gregory through whitening lips.
For an instant love alone dominated his heart. "Mascola escaped in the Fuor d'Italia." Dickie's words recalled Gregory to his purpose. The next instant he was pulling at the chain. "I'll take you around the point to the cutter," he called to her as he worked. "You'll be safe there until " "No." The girl's answer was spoken with a determination there was no gainsaying.
Kenneth Gregory looked after the departing lights of the Fuor d'Italia. "Score one for the invaders of Bandrist's island," he said grimly. "Mascola didn't learn much on his reconnoitering expedition, except that we had a better boat than his." Then he turned to Bronson. "Take us up to the other end," he instructed.
The Richard was in motion before the echoes of the Fuor d'Italia's gatlin-like exhaust had died away. Directing Bronson to take them alongside each of the vessels which composed the fleet, Gregory and Dickie Lang boarded the fishing vessels and conferred with the respective captains. Gregory's instructions were phrased with military directness.
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