I wasn’t expecting to fly an admiral’s pennant quite so quick, but I managed to shake out through my teeth—­they was chattering like a box of dice—­that I was glad to know the feller.  Jonadab, he rattled loose something similar.

“The Cap’n and the Admiral,” says Phil, “having sailed the raging main for lo! these many years, are now favoring me with their advice concerning the navigation of ice-yachts.  Archie, if you’re willing to enter against such a handicap of brains and barnacles, I’ll race you on a beat up to the point yonder, then on the ten mile run afore the wind to the buoy opposite the Club, and back to the cove by Dillaway’s.  And we’ll make it a case of wine.  Is it a go?”

Archie, he laughed and said it was, and, all at once, the race was on.

Now, Phil had lied when he said we was “favoring” him with advice, ’cause we hadn’t said a word; but that beat up to the point wa’n’t half over afore Jonadab and me was dying to tell him a few things.  He handled that boat like a lobster.  Archie gained on every tack and come about for the run a full minute afore us.

And on that run afore the wind ’twas worse than ever.  The way Phil see-sawed that piece of pie back and forth over the river was a sin and shame.  He could have slacked off his mainsail and headed dead for the buoy, but no, he jiggled around like an old woman crossing the road ahead of a funeral.

Cap’n Jonadab was on edge.  Racing was where he lived, as you might say, and he fidgeted like he was setting on a pin-cushion.  By and by he snaps out: 

“Keep her off!  Keep her off afore the wind!  Can’t you see where you’re going?”

Phil looked at him as if he was a graven image, and all the answer he made was; “Be calm, Barnacles, be calm!”

But pretty soon I couldn’t stand it no longer, and I busts out with:  “Keep her off, Mr. What’s-your name!  For the Lord’s sake, keep her off!  He’ll beat the life out of you!”

And all the good that done was for me to get a stare that was colder than the wind, if such a thing’s possible.

But Jonadab got fidgetyer every minute, and when we come out into the broadest part of the river, within a little ways of the buoy, he couldn’t stand it no longer.

“You’re spilling half the wind!” he yells.  “Pint’ her for the buoy or else you’ll be licked to death!  Jibe her so’s she gits it full.  Jibe her, you lubber!  Don’t you know how?  Here! let me show you!”

And the next thing I knew he fetched a hop like a frog, shoved Phil out of the way, grabbed the tiller, and jammed it over.