“’E kin take a reef hif ’e want, but not fer t’ Betsy Hanne,” said the old mariner. “My boat kin stand weather, she can.”
Indeed, the Betsy Anne proved that she could, for her big mainsail was as tight as a drum and her jib as full. She was cutting the water like a knife and eating up the distance toward the island.
Now they were abreast of the lower end and a mile off shore. The yawl was sliding down on the same tack but still a half mile off the Betsy’s starboard quarter.
“Neck and neck,” cried the skipper of the little craft. “Neck an’ neck wi’ a mile t’ run before we strikes t’ reef. [Hit’s a close race, me ’arties, for ’e’s comin’ fast.]”
“[Hit’s a close race, me ’arties, for ’e’s comin’ fast.]”
“Oh, make it please! We must! We must!” said Ray nervously as he looked toward his uncle’s boat.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the lobsterman and the next moment the Betsy Anne came about and started on the last reach toward the reef.
The Fish Hawk came about a moment later and much to the chagrin of the boys she seemed but half the distance behind.
“Jiminy, look at that boat come,” cried Jack, now thoroughly excited.