The Hilda had been three months at San Francisco, waiting for the wheat crop and a profitable charter.  We had come up from Australia, and most of our crew, having little wages due to them, had deserted soon after our arrival.  Only we apprentices and the sail-maker remained, and we had work enough to set our muscles up in the heavy harbour jobs.  Trimming coal and shovelling ballast may not be scientific training, but it is grand work for the back and shoulders.

We were in good trim for rowing.  The old man had given us every opportunity, and nothing he could do was wanting to make us fit.  Day and daily we had set our stroke up by the long pull from the anchorage to the wharves, old Burke coaching and encouraging, checking and speeding us, till we worked well together.  Only last Sunday he had taken us out of our way, up the creek, to where we could see the flag at the Rhondda’s masthead.  The old man said nothing, but well we knew he was thinking of how the square of blue silk, with Californian emblem worked in white, would look at his trim little Hilda’s fore-truck!  This flag accompanied the Cup, and now (if only the Yankee and his hired whalemen were safely at sea) we had hopes of seeing it at our masthead again.

Tea over—­still excited talk went on.  Some one recalled the last time we had overhauled and passed the Rhondda’s gig.

“It’s all very well your bucking about beating the Rhondda,” said Gregson; “but don’t think we’re going to have it all our own way!  Mebbe they were ’playing ‘possum’ when we came by that time!”

“Maybe,” said Jones.  “There’s Peters and H. Dobson in her crew.  Good men!  Both rowed in the Worcester boat that left the Conways’ at the start, three years ago. . . .  And what about the Rickmers? . . . .  No, no!  It won’t do to be too cocksure! . . . .  Eh, Takia?”

Takia was our cox-n, a small wiry Jap.  Nothing great in inches, but a demon for good steering and timing a stroke.  He was serving his apprenticeship with us and had been a year in the Hilda.  Brute strength was not one of his points, but none was keener or more active in the rigging than our little Jap.

He smiled,—­he always smiled,—­he found it the easiest way of speaking English.  “Oh, yes,” he said.  “Little cocksu’—­good!  Too much cocksu’—­no good!”

We laughed at the wisdom of the East.

“Talk about being cocky,” said Gregson; “you should hear Captain Schenke bragging about the way he brought the Hedwig Rickmers out.  I heard ’em and the old man at it in the ship-chandler’s yesterday.  Hot . . . .  Look here, you chaps!  I don’t think the old man cares so much to win the Cup as to beat Schenke!  The big ‘squarehead’ is always ramming it down Burke’s throat how he brought his barque out from Liverpool in a hundred and five days, while the Hilda took ten days more on her last run out!”