At two the Regatta began.  A race for longshore craft showed that the boarding-house “crimps” were as skillful at boatman’s work as at inducing sailormen to desert their ships.  Then two outriggers flashed by, contesting a heat for a College race.  We in the Hilda’s gig lay handily at the starting line and soon were called out.  There were nine entries for the Cup, and the judges had decided to run three heats.  We were drawn in the first, and, together with the Ardlea’s and Compton’s gigs, went out to be inspected.  The boats had to race in sea-service conditions, no lightening was allowed.  At the challenge of the judges we showed our gear.  “Spare oar—­right!  Rowlocks—­right!  Sea-anchor—­right!  Bottom boards and stern grating—­right.  Painter, ten fathoms; hemp. . . .  A bit short there, Compton!  Eh? . . .  Oh—­all right,” said the official, and we manoeuvred into position, our sterns held in by the guard-boats.  Some of the ships’ captains had engaged a steam-launch to follow the heats, and old Burke was there with his trumpet, shouting encouragement already.

“Air yew ready?”

A pause:  then, pistol shot!  We struck water and laid out!  Our task was not difficult.  The Ardlea’s gig was broad-bowed and heavy; they had no chance; but the Compton’s gave us a stiff pull to more than midway.  Had they been like us, three months at boat-work, we had not pulled so easily up to the mark, but their ship was just in from Liverpool, and they were in poor condition for a mile and a half at pressure.  We won easily, and scarce had cheered the losers before the launch came fussing up.

“Come aboard, Takia,” shouted old Burke.  “Ye come down wit’ me an’ see what shape the German makes.  He’s drawn wit’ th’ Rhondda in this heat!”

Takia bundled aboard the launch and we hauled inshore to watch the race.  There was a delay at the start.  Schenke, nichts verstehen, as he said, was for sending his boat away without a painter or spare gear.  He was pulled up by the judges, and had to borrow.

Now they were ready.  The Rickmers outside, Rhondda in the middle berth, and the neat little Slieve Donard inshore.  At the start the Rhonddas came fair away from the German boat, but even at the distance we could see that the “Dutchmen” were well in hand.  At midway the Rhondda was leading by a length, still going strong, but they had shot their bolt, and the green boat was surely pulling up.  The Slieve Donard, after an unsteady course, had given up.  Soon we could hear old Schenke roaring oaths and orders, as his launch came flying on in the wake of the speeding boats.

The Germans spurted.

We yelled encouragement to the Rhonddas.  “Give ’em beans, old sons! . . .”

“Rhondda! Rhondda! . . .  Shake ’er up” Gallantly the white boat strove to keep her place, but the greens were too strong.  With a rush, they took the lead and held it to the finish, though two lengths from the line their stroke faltered, the swing was gone, and they were dabbling feebly when the shot rang out.