For a full mile the yacht zigzagged from one side of the road to the other.  Eves handled the sheet very smartly, but soon found it hopeless to attempt to cope at once with the gustiness of the wind and the sudden swerves of the yacht, and finally contented himself with letting the boom swing freely within a narrow circle, fearing every moment that a lurch would capsize them all.  Another turn in the road again gave them the wind; the yacht darted forward on a straight course, and the Irishman reported in high glee that the green car, grunting like Patsy O’Halloran’s pig and snorting like Mike Grady’s bull, was dropping behind as fast as she could run.