The _James Flint_ came around the bend, and our eager eyes followed her
as she steered after the tug. She was making for the outer anchorage,
where the laden ships lie in readiness for a good start off.

"Th' wind's 'bout west outside," said Jones. "A 'dead muzzler'!
She'll not put t' sea tonight, even if she has all her 'crowd' aboard."

"No, worse luck! mebbe she'll lie over till Saturday after all. They
say Bully's dead set on getting th' Cup. He might hang back. . . .
Some excuse--short-handed or something!" Gregson was the one for
"croaking."

"No hands?" said Fatty. "Huh! How could he be short-handed when
everybody knows that Daly's boardin'-house is chock-full of fightin'
Dutchmen? No, no! It'll be the sack for Mister Bully B. Nathan if he
lets a capful o' fair wind go by and his anchor down. Gracie's agents
'll watch that!"

"Well! He's here for th' night, anyway. . . . There goes her mudhook!"

We watched her great anchor go hurtling from the bows and heard the
roar of chain cable as she paid out and swung round to the tide.

"Come roun', yo' boys dere! Yo' doan' want no tea, eh?" The nigger
cook, beating tattoo on a saucepan lid, called us back to affairs of
the moment, and we sat down to our scanty meal in high spirits,
talking--all at one time--of our chances of the Cup.

The _Hilda_ had been three months at San Francisco, waiting for the
wheat crop and a profitable charter. We had come up from Australia,