Clancy and I went home by train, reaching Gloucester as the first of
an easterly gale set in. There we found it was nothing but talk of the
race. We had not reached Main Street at all before Clancy was held up.
Clancy, of course, would know. Where was Maurice Blake? What were we
doing in Gloucester and the Johnnie not in? The Duncans--especially
the elder Mr. Duncan--Miss Foster, my cousin Nell, and Will Somers
were boiling over. Where was Maurice Blake? Where was the Johnnie
Duncan? Everybody in town seemed to know that Sam Hollis had given us
a bad beating down Cape shore way, and the news had a mighty
discouraging effect on all Maurice's friends, even on those of them
who knew enough of Sam Hollis not to take his talk just as he wanted
them to take it. Withrow's vessel had beaten the Johnnie Duncan with
Maurice Blake sailing her--they had to believe that part of it, and
that in itself was bad enough. Sam Hollis's stock was booming, you may
be sure--and the race right close to hand, too.
"That little beating the Johnnie got didn't lose any in the telling by
Sam Hollis and his gang, did it, Joe?" said Clancy to me, and then he
went around borrowing all the money he could to bet the Johnnie Duncan
would beat the Withrow in the race. But would Maurice now enter at
all? I asked Clancy about that part--if there was not a chance that
Maurice might not stay down the Cape shore way and let the race go.
But he only laughed and said, "Lord--Joey-boy, you've a lot to learn
yet about Maurice in spite of your season's seining along with him."
It was a Monday morning when Clancy and I reached Gloucester. The race
was to be sailed on Friday of that same week. For several days before
this, we were told, Wesley Marrs, Sam Hollis, Tommie Ohlsen, and the
rest of them had been out in the Bay tuning up their vessels like a
lot of cup defenders. Never before had fishermen given so much
attention to the little details before a race. The same day that we
got home they were up on the ways for a final polishing and primping
up. They were smooth as porcelain when they came off. And coming off
their skippers thought they had better take some of the ballast out of
them. "'Tisn't as if it was winter weather"--it was the middle of
September then--"with big seas and driving gales," was the way Wesley
Marrs put it, and they all agreed that the chances were ten to one
that the wind would not be strong enough to call for the heavy ballast
they carried. Fishermen, of course, are built to be at their best when
wind and sea are doing their worst, and so the taking out of ballast
for a September race looked like good judgment. So about forty tons of
ballast were taken out of most of them--the Lucy Foster, the Withrow,
the Nannie O, and half a dozen others.
That looked all right, but on Tuesday night an easterly gale set in,
the wind blowing forty-odd miles an hour. All day Wednesday it blew,
and all day Thursday even harder, with a promise of blowing harder
still on Friday, which was to be the day of the race. The people of
Gloucester who had been praying for wind, "Wind for a fisherman's
race--wind--wind," seemed likely to get what they wanted.
On Thursday I saw Tommie Ohlsen and Wesley Marrs in conference on the
street. Wesley had his nose up in the air, sniffing the breeze. He
shook his head with, "Tommie, I ought to've let the ballast stay in
the Lucy. It looks like it's going to be the devil's own breeze for
vessels that ain't prepared for it."
"Yes," said Ohlsen, "wind fifty-two mile an hour the weather man says,
and still making. That's bad for light ballast and whole sail. If we
could only put the ballast back----"
"Yes--if we could. But we can't put it back now--there ain't time to
do it right and everybody would laugh at us too. And besides, if we
did, all the others would put it back, and where's the difference?"
"Of course," said Tommie, "but if all of us would put it back it would
make a better race."
In view of the reputation of Wesley Marrs and Ohlsen and O'Donnell and
their vessels, we could not understand the confidence of Withrow and
his people in Sam Hollis. He had a great vessel--nobody doubted it.
But it was doubted by many if she was the equal of some of the others,
and few believed she was better. And Sam Hollis was not the man to
carry the sail, or at least the fishermen of Gloucester generally did
not think so. But Withrow and Hollis's gang kept on bragging and they
backed their bragging up, too. I drew what money I had saved that
summer out of my seining share--two hundred and twenty-five
dollars--and bet it myself with one of the Withrow's crew that the
Johnnie Duncan would beat the Withrow, whether the Johnnie was home to
race or not. It was really betting against Withrow himself, who, it
was said, was taking up every bet made by any of the Withrow's crew.
That was Thursday afternoon, and still no word of the Duncan.
"Good for you, Joey," said Clancy when he heard of that. "Even if
Maurice don't come it's better to lose your money and shut them up.
But don't worry--he'll come. Do you think he's been standing and
looking at this easterly--it's all along the coast to Newf'undland I
see by the papers--and not swing her off? He's on his way now, and
swinging all he's got to her, I'll bet. Wait and see."
"My," said my cousin Nell, "and so you bet your pile on the Johnnie
Duncan whether she's in or not?--and if she don't reach here in time
you lose it all?" and told it all over to her Will Somers, to whom I
learned she was now engaged. And from that time on I noticed that
Alice Foster beamed on me like an angel.
Minnie Arkell was home for the race just as Clancy had prophesied. She
had come with some of her friends down from Boston three or four days
before this, in the same steam-yacht she had been aboard of at Newport
in June. Meeting me she asked me about our passage home on the Colleen
Bawn, and I told her of it. She listened with great interest.
"Is Tom O'Donnell as fine-looking as he used to be--with his grand
figure and head and great beard? I remember some years ago I used to
think him the finest-looking man I ever saw."
I told her that I guessed she'd think him fine-looking yet if she'd
seen him to the wheel of the Colleen Bawn with the six-pound shot
whistling by him, and he never so much as letting on he knew they were
there. Her eyes shone at that. Then she offered to take any bets I
made off my hands. "You can't afford to take your little savings out
of the bank and bet it on a vessel that may not be here in time. I'll
take it off your hands--come!"
That was an attractive side to her--caring but little for money--but I
wasn't letting anybody take my bets off my hands. I still believed
that Maurice would be home, though that was seven o'clock Thursday
evening. I knew he would be home if he only guessed that his friends
were betting on his vessel--and they not even knowing whether she was
to be home in time for the race. And if he weren't home, I was ready
to lose my little roll.