"One minute gone,' repeats the alert skipper; "hard-a-lee!" About she goes once more. "Two minutes gone," is soon heard, followed by another tack. "Three gone!" Then an anxious pause. "Four gone!" says our owner. We are at this time some considerable distance from the line, but fast approaching it, although our foresail-sheet is hauled to windward. To leeward, and a dozen lengths astern, is the Ghost.
"Four minutes fifty seconds," says our owner.
"Let draw the foresail; break out the jib-topsail," are the skipper's next commands, and for the ten seconds that follow we are all on tenterhooks. If we cross the imaginary line between the committee's steamer and the mark-boat before the signal is given we shall have to go back and cross the line again. It is indeed an anxious moment.
"Fifty-five seconds, fifty-six, fifty-seven"
"Will they never fire?" think I.
"Fifty-eight, fifty-nine"
"The gun!"
"Hurrah, hurrah! you gauged her beautifully," says the owner to the skipper, on whose mahoganized mug there grows a gratified grin.
"Ghost is ten seconds after the gun," observed the owner, "but I guess she'll pick that up and more too, on this leg, alone."
The Phantom is now hissing along with the wind on the port beam, the
