over the beef! . . . Scorch 'im!"

In the forenoon we dropped the gig and put out for practice. Old Burke
and the mate came after us in the dinghy, the old man shouting
instruction and encouragement through his megaphone as we rowed a
course or spurted hard for a furious three minutes. Others were out on
the same ploy, and the backwaters of the Bay had each a lash of oars to
stir their tideless depths. Near us the green boat of the _Rickmers_
thrashed up and down in style. Time and again we drew across--"just
for a friendly spurt"--but the "Dutchies" were not giving anything
away, and sheered off as we approached. We spent an hour or more at
practice and were rowing leisurely back to the ship when the green boat
overhauled us, then slowed to her skipper's orders.

"How you vass, Cabtin Burke?" said Schenke, an enormous fair-headed
Teuton, powerful-looking, but run sadly to fat in his elder years.
"You t'ink you get a chanst now, _hein_? . . . Now de Yankee is goin'
avay!" He pointed over to the Presidio, where the _Flint_ lay at
anchor. We followed the line of his fat forefinger. At anchor, yes,
but the anchor nearly a-weigh. Her flags were hoisted, the blue peter
fluttering at the fore, and the _Active_ tug was passing a hawser
aboard, getting ready to tow her out. The smoke from the tugboat's
funnel was whirling and blowing over the low forts that guard the
Golden Gates. Good luck! A fine nor'-west breeze had come that would
lift our dreaded rival far to the south'ard on her way round Cape Horn!

Schenke saw the pleased look with which old Burke regarded the Yankee's
preparations for departure.

"Goot bizness, eh?" he said. "You t'ink you fly de flack on de _Hilda_