We weathered the packet and squeezed by the beacon.  The end of our long bowsprit did hit the white-painted slats, gave ’em a good healthy wallop, but that wasn’t any surprise—­we figured on going close.  We were by and safe, and looking back from the wheel to mark her wake swashing over the very rock itself, I had to whisper to her: 

“Aurora, girl, you’re all I ever said you were.”  But if you’d seen her, the big spars of her, the set of her rigging, the fine-fitting sails, the beautiful line of the rail, and the straight flat deck, you’d have to admit it wasn’t any surprise.  You couldn’t ’ve done it with every vessel—­but the Aurora! A great bit of wood, the Aurora!

And looking past her wake, I picked out Miller’s motor boat along inside the French gun-boat.  But no gun-boat was worrying me then.  They might chase me, but the gun-boat wasn’t afloat that could ’ve chased and caught the Aurora in that gale.  A man didn’t need to be a French captain to know that.

But for fear they might chase us, I kept her going.  And after we’d had time to get our breath, we took a peek into her hold.  And it was loaded with cases—­wine, brandy—­liquors of all kinds.  And the gang said:  “How about it, skipper?” And I said:  “Help yourself—­you’ve earned it,” and they helped themselves.

And they had their promised Christmas dinner.  The turkey had only to be warmed up.  After it was warmed up, it was fine to hear Sam telling about the recapturing of it.  “He was in the kitchen—­just been hauled out the oven—­and the chef, he was standing over him with a big carving knife, when I spots the pair of ’em through the window.  ‘Stand by, fellows,’ I hollers, and jumps through the window and grabs the carving knife and chases cheffie out the room with it.  And back through the window comes me and the turk.  An’ they all hollers murder and comes after us.  And look at him now!  Twenty-five pounds he weighs—­the biggest turkey, I’m tellin’ you, ever sailed out of ol’ Saint Peer.  A whale, twenty-five pounds as he lies there.  And four kinds of wine—­four kinds.  Cassie, champagne, claret, which you don’t have to drink ’less you want to, and that red-colored wine I don’t know the name of, but good stuff—­I sampled it.  And that’s what I call a Christmas dinner.”

And I guess it was.  Pretty soon they were hopping around like a lot of leaping goats.  The best-natured crowd ever you see, mind, but it was Christmas Day, and they’d done a good job; the blood was running wild inside them, and I let them run a while.  And then when I thinks it time to begin to straighten them out, I looks them over and finally picking out Archie Gillis I says, ’Archie, I think you’re the drunkest!  Take the wheel and soak it out.’

And Archie stood to the wheel, and up the cabin steps the rest of the gang kept passing him drinks of champagne when they thought I wasn’t looking.