“I should say she is coming,” said Ray, “and by gracious if she can beat us out on this stretch she can cut across our bow and head us off from the opening in the reef for she’ll be on our port side. Oh, make it, Mr. Mitchell, make it, for goodness’ sakes.”
But Mitchell was all attention on the race just then and did not even look at the lads. With cool calculating eye he measured the distance between his boat and the yawl and the distance to the reef. For fully five minutes he was as silent as a stone image, then he said triumphantly:
“Hif we keep hit up, boys, we’ll crowd ’im hin s’close to t’ reef that ’e’ll be huncom’f’table. Then ’e’ll ’ave t’ come about and run astern o’ us, which will lose ’im a ’undred yards; either that er ’e’ll ’ave t’ run hus down, which ’e won’t do fer fear o’ stovin’ hup ’es own boat. We got ’im, lads, cause ’e won’t run werry close hin fer t’ water’s bilin’ hup on t’ rocks. Watch now. We’re edgin’ closer. See ’im, ’es narvous! See ’im! See ’im now! Ain’t ’e figity! ’E gettin’ hin clost! ’As ’e got ’es nerve wi’ ’im? Nope—’o—’o—I knew hit—’ere ’e comes about an’ on we goes a ’undred yards further. Hoorah!”
True to the old man’s calculations, the little boat crowded the big boat out of the inside course. Ray’s uncle was afraid to venture as close to the ugly water as Mitchell sailed his boat and he was forced to come about and head across the wake of the Betsy Anne. But the lobsterman’s craft kept dead on for five minutes longer and the yawl sheered off to keep from running her down.
“Out-sailed, by George, out-sailed! I’ll bet Uncle Vance is so mad he would sink us if he had to do it over again,” screamed Ray in delight. The two boats had crossed so close to each other that he could see the bearded figure of his uncle at the wheel. Indeed, the old tyrant shook his fist at the lad and Ray grinned in return.
The run up along the reef was made with the Betsy Anne on the inside and the Fish Hawk two hundred yards off the starboard quarter. But the swordfisherman could see that the race was lost and he was only keeping abreast while he thought of a new plan of action. But even while he was thinking it over the sloop came even with the break between the rocks and although the water raced through the opening at express speed and lashed the boulders on either side, Old Mitchell jammed down the helm, hauled in on his sheet and with a swish of canvas and the creaking of blocks, the Betsy Anne came about and slipped through and into the comparatively smooth water inside.
“Talk about a sailor!” cried Ray, as Mitchell headed the Betsy Anne north again toward the little beach. “Talk about a sailor! Why, there isn’t a man along the Maine coast who could have done it prettier, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Tut, tut, hit hall comes o’ my known t’ wies o’ me Betsy Hanne, me boy,” said the lobsterman, but he was plainly pleased with the compliment.
A few minutes later the little sloop came to anchor and the crew of three rowed to the beach in Captain Eli’s dory. And as the trio stepped ashore, Ray turned and gazed at the disappearing Fish Hawk.
“Well, we beat you, Uncle Vance, and I hope I’ll never see your old boat again,” he said.