And the Olympia’s personnel?  The admiral of the fleet, the captain and the officers straight down to the very stokers?  Well, they had an idea of what the Olympia’s men were worth when it came to the scratch and a few things were privately moving forward which might have made the Chicago’s personnel sit up and take notice had they found time to do so.

There were no evergreens brought over the side, it is true, but launches had been darting to and fro with systematic regularity, and each time they came from New London significant-looking boxes, important junior officers, and odd freight came, too, but no one was the wiser.  Not only were awnings spread fore and aft, but they were hung in such a way that passing craft, however curious the occupants, could not see what might be taking place on board.

But with five bells came a revelation.  A steady line of launches put off to the shore, some to the east, some to the west, to return with a gay freight, and as they came up the starboard gangway the festive femininity broke into rapturous exclamations, for on every side were roses!  Red roses, white roses, pink roses, pale yellow roses, begged, bought or—­hush!—­from every farmhouse within a radius of five miles, and every nook and corner of the deck was made snug and attractive with bunting, or rug-covered—­well, if not chairs, improvised seats which served the purpose equally well and from which “the get-away” could be clearly seen, the course being a triangular one, starting on the port side of the Olympia and ending on the starboard bow.  The Chicago, with all her bravery, lacked the position held by the Olympia.

Captain Stewart’s party were the guests of the Olympia and had come aboard early.

Peggy and Polly were wild with excitement.  At least Polly was; Peggy took her pleasures with less demonstration.

The cutter crews were already in their boats and ready to pull out to the starter’s launch which bobbed gaily within easy range of the quarter-deck.

Peggy and Polly hung over the rail calling cheery farewells to Durand and Lowell and telling the others that they would never forgive them if they did not win the trophy.

“Win!  Win!  Fill up that tin cup right now and have it ready to hand over when we come back the proud victors of the day, for we’ll be thirsty and you can just bet we’re going to come back in that fascinating guise—­ winners, we mean.  What?  Let those lobsters from the ‘Chi’ beat us out?  Not on your life!  You just watch us play with them, and pull all around them,” shouted Lowell as the cutter shoved off at the coxswain’s word.

Meanwhile the Chicago’s cutter had taken. her berth and was ready for the send-off from the committee’s launch.

Now a cutter race is no holiday pastime but a long pull and a strong pull from start to finish, for a cutter weighs something over and above a racing shell, to say nothing of her lines being designed for service in stress rather than for a holiday fete.  Add to the weight of the boat herself her freight of twelve men, and all pretty husky fellows, and you’ve got some pulling ahead in order to push that boat through a given distance of water.