“There’s nothing like making sure of a thing,” said the skipper placidly.  “What time’s our chaps coming aboard?”

“Ten thirty, the latest,” replied the mate.  “Old Sam’s with ’em, so they’ll be all right.”

“I’ll turn in for a couple of hours,” said the skipper, going towards his berth.  “Lord!  I’d give something to see old Berrow’s face as his chaps come up the side.”

“P’raps they won’t git as far as that,” remarked the mate.

“Oh, yes they will,” said the skipper.  “Dibbs is going to see to that.  I don’t want any chance of the race being scratched.  Turn me out in a couple of hours.”

He closed the door behind him, and the mate, having stuffed his clay with the coarse tobacco, took some pink note-paper with scalloped edges from his drawer, and, placing the paper at his right side, and squaring his shoulders, began some private correspondence.

For some time he smoked and wrote in silence, until the increasing darkness warned him to finish his task.  He signed the note, and, having put a few marks of a tender nature below his signature, sealed it ready for the post, and sat with half-closed eyes, finishing his pipe.  Then his head nodded, and, placing his arms on the table, he too slept.

It seemed but a minute since he had closed his eyes when he was awakened by the entrance of the skipper, who came blundering into the darkness from his stateroom, vociferating loudly and nervously.

“Ay, ay!” said Joe, starting up.

“Where’s the lights?” said the skipper.  “What’s the time?  I dreamt I’d overslept myself.  What’s the time?”

“Plenty o’ time,” said the mate vaguely, as he stifled a yawn.

“Ha’-past ten,” said the skipper, as he struck a match, “You’ve been asleep,” he added severely.

“I ain’t,” said the mate stoutly, as he followed the other on deck.  “I’ve been thinking.  I think better in the dark.”

“It’s about time our chaps was aboard,” said the skipper, as he looked round the deserted deck.  “I hope they won’t be late.”

“Sam’s with ’em,” said the mate confidently, as he went on to the side; “there ain’t no festivities going on aboard the Good Intent, neither.”

“There will be,” said his worthy skipper, with a grin, as he looked across the intervening brig at the rival craft; “there will be.”

He walked round the deck to see that everything was snug and ship-shape, and got back to the mate just as a howl of surprising weirdness was heard proceeding from the neighbouring stairs.

“I’m s’prised at Berrow allowing his men to make that noise,” said the skipper waggishly.  “Our chaps are there too, I think.  I can hear Sam’s voice.”

“So can I,” said the mate, with emphasis.

“Seems to be talking rather loud,” said the master of the Thistle, knitting his brows.

“Sounds as though he’s trying to sing,” said the mate, as, after some delay, a heavily-laden boat put off from the stairs and made slowly for them.  “No, he ain’t; he’s screaming.”