We were hardly across the line when there was a broom at our truck--a
new broom that I know I, for one, never saw before. And yet I suppose
every vessel that sailed in the race that day had a new broom hid away
somewhere below--to be handy if needed.
But it was the Johnnie Duncan, sailing up the harbor, that carried
hers to the truck. And it was Mr. Duncan who stood aft of her and took
most of the cheers, and it was Clancy and Long Steve who waved their
hands from the wheel-box, and it was the skipper who leaned against
the weather rigging, and the rest of us who lined the weather rail and
answered the foolish questions of people along the road.
Every vessel we met seemed to think we had done something great; and I
suppose we had in a way--that is, skipper, crew and vessel. We had
out-carried and out-sailed the best out of Gloucester in a breeze that
was a breeze. We had taken the chance of being capsized or hove-down
and losing the vessel and ourselves. Mr. Duncan, I think, realized
more than anybody else at the time what we had been through. "I didn't
know what it really was to be," he said, "before I started. If I had,
I doubt very much if I'd have started." We all said--"No, no, you'd
have gone just the same, Mr. Duncan;" and we believed he would, too.
Going up the harbor somebody hinted to Clancy that he ought to go and
have a mug-up for himself after his hard work--and it had been hard
work. "And I'll take your place at the wheel," said that somebody,
"for you must be tired, Tommie."
"And maybe I am tired, too," answered Clancy, "but if I am, I'm just
thick enough not to know it. But don't fool yourself that if I stood
lashed to this wheel since she crossed the starting line this morning
I'm going to quit it now and let you take her up the harbor and get
all the bouquets. I'll have a mug-up by and by, and it'll be a mug-up,
don't you worry."
And it was a mug-up. He took the gold and silver cup given to Maurice
as a skipper of the winning vessel, and with the crew in his wake
headed a course for the Anchorage, where he filled it till it
flowed--and didn't have to pay for filling it, either.
"It's the swellest growler that I ever expect to empty. Gold and
silver--and holds six quarts level. Just a little touch all round,
and we'll fill her up again. 'Carte blanche, and charge it to me,'
says Mr. Duncan."
"What kind is carte blanche, Tommie?" asked Andie Howe.
"They'll tell you behind the bar," said Clancy.
"Billie," ordered Andie, "just a little touch of carte blanche, will
you, while Clancy's talking. He's the slowest man to begin that ever I
see. Speeches--speeches--speeches, when your throat's full of
gurry--dry, salty gurry. A little touch of that carte blanche that Mr.
Duncan ordered for the crew of the Johnnie Duncan, Billie, will you?"
"Carte blanche--yes," went on Clancy, "and I callate the old fizzy
stuff's the thing to do justice to this fe-lic-i-tous oc-ca-sion. Do I
hear the voice of my shipmates? Aye, aye, I hear them--and in accents
unmistakable. Well, here's a shoot--six quarts level--and a few pieces
of ice floating around on top. My soul, but don't it look fine and
rich? Have a look, everybody."
"Let's have a drink instead," hollered Parsons.
Clancy paid no attention to that. "Who was the lad in that Greek bunch
in the old days that they sank up to his neck in the lake--cold
sparkling water--and peaches and oranges and grapes floating on a
little raft close by--but him fixed so he couldn't bend his head down
to get a drink nor lift his head to take a bite of fruit--and hot
weather all the time, mind you. Lord, the thirst he raised after a
while! What was his--oh, yes, Tantalus--that's the lad, Tantalus--the
cold sparkling water. Man, the thirst he----"
"The thirst of Tantalus ain't a patch on the thirst I got. And this is
something better than cold sparkling water. That's you all over,
Tommie--joking at serious times," wailed Parsons.
"Is it as bad as that with you, Eddie? Well, let's forget Tantalus and
drink instead to the able-est, handsom-est, fast-est vessel that ever
weathered Eastern Point--to the Johnnie Duncan--and her skipper."
"And Mr. Duncan, Tommie--he's all right, too."
"Yes, of course, Mr. Duncan. And while we're at it, here's to the
whole blessed gang of us--skipper, owner and crew--we're all
corkers."
"Drive her, Tommie!" roared a dozen voices, and Tommie drove her for a
good pint before he set the cup down again.
It was a great celebration altogether. Wherever one of our gang was
there was an admiring crowd. Nobody but us was listened to. And the
questions we had to answer! And of course we were all willing enough
to talk. We must have told the story of the race over about twenty
times each. After a while, of course, some of our fellows, with all
the entertaining and admiration that was handed out to them, had to
put a touch or two to it. It was strong enough to tell the bare facts
of that race, I thought, but one or two had to give their imaginations
a chance. One man, a fisherman, one of those who had been on one of
the excursion boats, and so didn't see the race at all, came along
about two hours after the Duncan crew struck the Anchorage and
listened to Andie Howe for a while. And going away it was he who said,
"It must have been a race that. As near as I c'n make it out the
Johnnie sailed most of that race keel up."
"Oh, don't go away mad," Andie called after him. "Come back and have a
little touch of carte blanche--it's on the old man."
"I'll take it for him," came a voice. It was old Peter of Crow's Nest,
who took his drink and asked for Clancy. Clancy was in the back part
of the room, and I ran and got him. Peter led the way to the
sidewalk.
"Tommie, go and get Maurice, if it ain't too late."
"What is it?"
"It's Minnie Arkell. Coming up the dock after the race she ran up and
grabbed him and threw her arms about his neck. 'You're the man to sail
a race in heavy weather,' she hollers, and a hundred people looking
on. And there's half a dozen of those friends of hers and they're up
to her house and now making ready for a wine celebration. Go and get
him before it is too late."