Great was our joy at the prospect of the Yankee’s sailing.  The ’Frisco Merchants’ Cup was to be rowed for on Saturday.  It was a mile-and-half race for ships’ boats, and three wins held the Cup for good.  Twice, on previous years, the Hilda’s trim gig had shot over the line—­a handsome winner.  If we won again, the Cup was ours for keeps!  But there were strong opponents to be met this time.  The James Flint was the most formidable.  It was open word that Bully Nathan was keen on winning the trophy.  Every one knew that he had deliberately sought out boatmen when the whalers came in from the north.  Those who had seen the Yankee’s crew at work in their snaky carvel-built boat said that no one else was in it.  What chance had we boys in our clinker-built against the thews and sinews of trained whalemen?  It was no wonder that we slapped our thighs at the prospect of a more open race.

Still, even with the Yankee gone, there were others in the running.  There was the Rhondda that held the Cup for the year, having won when we were somewhere off the Horn; then the Hedwig Rickmers—­a Bremen four-master—­which had not before competed, but whose green-painted gig was out for practice morning and night.  We felt easy about the Rhondda (for had we not, time and again, shown them our stern on the long pull from Green St. to the outer anchorage?), but the Germans were different.  Try as we might, we could never pull off a spurt with them.  No one knew for certain what they could do, only old Schenke, their skipper, and he held his tongue wisely.

The James Flint came around the bend, and our eager eyes followed her as she steered after the tug.  She was making for the outer anchorage, where the laden ships lie in readiness for a good start off.

“Th’ wind’s ’bout west outside,” said Jones.  “A ‘dead muzzler’!  She’ll not put t’ sea tonight, even if she has all her ‘crowd’ aboard.”

“No, worse luck! mebbe she’ll lie over till Saturday after all.  They say Bully’s dead set on getting th’ Cup.  He might hang back. . . .  Some excuse—­short-handed or something!” Gregson was the one for “croaking.”

“No hands?” said Fatty.  “Huh!  How could he be short-handed when everybody knows that Daly’s boardin’-house is chock-full of fightin’ Dutchmen?  No, no!  It’ll be the sack for Mister Bully B. Nathan if he lets a capful o’ fair wind go by and his anchor down.  Gracie’s agents ’ll watch that!”

“Well!  He’s here for th’ night, anyway. . . .  There goes her mudhook!”

We watched her great anchor go hurtling from the bows and heard the roar of chain cable as she paid out and swung round to the tide.

“Come roun’, yo’ boys dere!  Yo’ doan’ want no tea, eh?” The nigger cook, beating tattoo on a saucepan lid, called us back to affairs of the moment, and we sat down to our scanty meal in high spirits, talking—­all at one time—­of our chances of the Cup.