The yacht rounded the turn, and the hill came in view—a short sharp spur about a quarter-mile in length.  In a trice they dowsed the sails. Templeton switched on the engine, intending to rush the incline. Looking behind somewhat anxiously now, the Irishman declared that the green car was barging on like a mad steam engine.  Roaring like a furnace, it seemed to leap over the ground, overhauling the yacht yard by yard until it was three-parts up the hill.  Then the clamour suddenly ceased.