“The wind’s light, but it’s from the right quarter,” said Captain Berrow, “an’ I only hope as ’ow the best ship’ll win.  I’d like to win myself, but, if not, I can only say as there’s no man breathing I’d sooner have lick me than Cap’n Tucker.  He’s as smart a seaman as ever comes into the London river, an’ he’s got a schooner angels would be proud of.”

“Glasses o’ gin round,” said Tucker promptly.  “Cap’n Berrow, here’s your very good health, an’ a fair field an’ no favour.”

With these praiseworthy sentiments the master of the Thistle finished his liquor, and, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, nodded farewell to the twain and departed.  Once in the High Street he walked slowly, as one in deep thought, then, with a sudden resolution, turned up Nightingale Lane, and made for a small, unsavoury thoroughfare leading out of Ratcliff Highway.  A quarter of an hour later he emerged into that famous thoroughfare again, smiling incoherently, and, retracing his steps to the waterside, jumped into a boat, and was pulled off to his ship.

“Comes off to-night, Joe,” said he, as he descended to the cabin, “an’ it’s arf a quid to you if the old gal wins.”

“What’s the bet?” inquired the mate, looking up from his task of shredding tobacco.

“Five quid,” replied the skipper.

“Well, we ought to do it,” said the mate slowly; “’t wont be my fault if we don’t.”

“Mine neither,” said the skipper.  “As a matter o’ fact, Joe, I reckon I’ve about made sure of it.  All’s fair in love and war and racing, Joe.”

“Ay, ay,” said the mate, more slowly than before, as he revolved this addition to the proverb.

“I just nipped round and saw a chap I used to know named Dibbs,” said the skipper.  “Keeps a boarding-house for sailors.  Wonderful sharp little chap he is.  Needles ain’t nothing to him.  There’s heaps of needles, but only one Dibbs.  He’s going to make old Berrow’s chaps as drunk as lords.”

“Does he know ’em?” inquired the mate.

“He knows where to find ’em,” said the other.  “I told him they’d either be in the ‘Duke’s Head’ or the ‘Town o’ Berwick.’  But he’d find ’em wherever they was.  Ah, even if they was in a coffee pallis, I b’leeve that man ’ud find ’em.”

“They’re steady chaps,” objected the mate, but in a weak fashion, being somewhat staggered by this tribute to Mr. Dibbs’ remarkable powers.

“My lad,” said the skipper, “it’s Dibbs’ business to mix sailors’ liquors so’s they don’t know whether they’re standing on their heads or their heels.  He’s the most wonderful mixer in Christendom; takes a reg’lar pride in it.  Many a sailorman has got up a ship’s side, thinking it was stairs, and gone off half acrost the world instead of going to bed, through him.”

“We’ll have a easy job of it, then,” said the mate.  “I b’leeve we could ha’ managed it without that, though.  ’Tain’t quite what you’d call sport, is it?”