“That’s so, I guess,” said Jones. (Jones had the Yankee “touch.”) “Old Burke would dearly love to put a spoke in his wheel, but it’ll take some doing.  They say that Schenke has got a friend down from Sacramento—­gym.-instructor or something to a college up there.  He’ll be training the ‘Dutchy’ crew like blazes.  They’ll give us a hot time, I’ll bet!”

Gregson rose to go on deck.  “Oh, well,” he said, “it won’t be so bad if the James Flint only lifts his hook by Saturday.  Here’s one bloomin’ hombre that funks racin’ a fancy whaler! . . .  An’ doesn’t care who knows it, either!”

II

Thursday passed—­and now Friday—­still there was no sign of the wind changing, and the big Yankee barque lay quietly at anchor over by the Presidio.

When the butcher came off from the shore with the day’s stores, we eagerly questioned him about the prospects of the James Flint’s sailing. “Huh!  I guess yew’re nat the only ‘citizens’ that air concarned ‘bout that!” he said.  “They’re talkin’ ‘bout nuthin’ else on every ‘lime-juicer’ in the Bay! . . . .  An’ th’ Rickmers!  Gee!  Schenkie’s had his eye glued ter th’ long telescope ever since daybreak, watchin’ fer th’ Flint heavin’ up anchor!”

The butcher had varied information to give us.  Now it was that Bully Nathan had telegraphed to his New York owners for permission to remain in port over Sunday.  Then again, Bully was on the point of being dismissed his ship for not taking full advantage of a puff of nor’-west wind that came and went on Thursday night.

. . .  The Flint was short of men! . . .  The Flint had a full crew aboard!  Rumours and rumours!  “All sorts o’ talk,” said the butcher; “but I know this fer certain—­she’s got all her stores aboard.  Gosh!  I guess—­she—­has!  I don’t like to wish nobody no harm, byes, but I hope Bully Nathan’s first chop ‘ll choke him, fer th’ way he done me over the beef! . . .  Scorch ’im!”

In the forenoon we dropped the gig and put out for practice.  Old Burke and the mate came after us in the dinghy, the old man shouting instruction and encouragement through his megaphone as we rowed a course or spurted hard for a furious three minutes.  Others were out on the same ploy, and the backwaters of the Bay had each a lash of oars to stir their tideless depths.  Near us the green boat of the Rickmers thrashed up and down in style.  Time and again we drew across—­“just for a friendly spurt”—­but the “Dutchies” were not giving anything away, and sheered off as we approached.  We spent an hour or more at practice and were rowing leisurely back to the ship when the green boat overhauled us, then slowed to her skipper’s orders.