The Captain of the Forecastle, who read his "Old Moore's Almanac," and was susceptible to signs and portents, confirmed the optimism of the Quartermaster.
"I 'ad a dream last night," he said. "I was a-walkin' with my missus alongside the Serpentine—in London, that is. There was swans sailin' on it, an' we was 'eavin' bits of bread to 'em. 'Fred,' she says, 'you'll 'ave it beautiful for your regatta. You'll win,' she says, 'the Stokers' Cutters, the Vet'rans' Skiff's, the Orficers' Gigs, an' the All-comers.'"
"That's along of you eatin' lobster for supper last night," said the
Ship's Painter, a sceptic who had a sovereign on a race not mentioned
by the Captain of the Forecastle's wife. "Wot about the perishin'
Boys' Cutters? Didn't your old Dutch say nothin' about them?"
The seer shook his head and performed intricate evolutions with a pin in the cavernous recesses of his mouth.
"Mebbe she would 'ave if she'd 'ad the chanst," was the reply. "But she didn't 'ave time to say no more afore the Reveille interrupted 'er, an' I 'ad to turn out."
The Quartermaster of the Morning Watch concluded his repast. "Well," he said, "Mebbe she'll tell you the rest to-night. Then we'll know 'oo's 'oo, as the sayin' is. But there's one crew as I'll put my shirt on, an' that's the Orficers' Gigs."
"'Ow about the Boys' Cutters?" demanded the Ship's Painter whose sovereign was in jeopardy.
"An' the Vet'rans' Skiffs," echoed the Captain of the Forecastle, "what my wife mentioned? 'Fred,' she says——"
"An' the All-comers," interrupted the Captain of the Side, "wiv the
Chief Buffer[2] coxin' the launch?"
The Quartermaster of the Morning Watch made a motion with an enormous freckled paw as if stroking an invisible kitten. "I ain't sayin' nothin' against 'em. Nothin' at all. What I says is, 'Wait an' see.' I ain't a bettin' man, not meself. But if anyone was to fancy an even 'arf quid——"