Phœbe saw the men together and slipped over to them. Walter had gone on board the Sago-ye-wat-ha.
“Don’t quarrel, now,” she said. “Try to keep your tempers, men. I know how you feel, but hide it. Pretend at least to be friends. I’m shakin’ hands with you, Mr. Tyler, but I’m countin’ my beads for Sago-ye-wat-ha and rainin’ my last curses on the Cohlosa, bad cess to it!”
“Well, I’m sorry,” smiled Tyler; “for they say that the prayer of the righteous availeth much.”
“Now don’t talk that way!” she protested. “I must keep all the fires of hatred goin’, an’ how can I hate you properly, man, when you blarney me so beautifully? I never was the one to stand out against a man who’d flattered me. Well, I hope you come in second, then, Mr. Tyler, but don’t tell me any more pretty lies or I’ll be wishin’ it a tie race. An’ now, as man to woman, Mr. Tyler, give us a tip. Do you think we have a chance? An’ is there any little thing you can suggest to help us beat you?”
“Votes for women!” cried Jawn. “Wait till they carry on a Presidential campaign, boys. We’ll all be confessing to bribery and ballot-stuffing weeks before we start to do the crooked work. Own up, Tyler, that you’ve got a gasolene engine concealed under the rudder. Or perhaps you’ll oblige a lady by boring a few auger holes in the bottom.”
“Jawn Galloway!” Phœbe turned on him. “How can you have the nerve to go on talkin’ an’ in the same breath refer to anything bein’ bored?”
Jawn surrendered and let Phœbe have the floor. Her bantering request to Tyler had a serious object back of it. This race was something more, as she well knew, than a test of skill; it was the test of a man. Walter’s fate was more or less in the balance, and she wished to allay her painful anxiety by some encouraging word. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have given a bundle of fiddle-strings to be the winner of a dozen Lake cups; but this race was not an ordinary race.
Somehow Tyler, a fine, sensitive man—sportsman every inch of him—caught the undercurrent of seriousness back of the laughing face.
“Fagner is always dangerous in a race,” he said, “but this time we both have our eye on Walter. He’s a fine, natural sailor, the best ‘passenger’ I ever had. He knows what I’m going to do before I do it and is ready to follow up the order without wasting valuable seconds. He has a splendid knowledge of local wind currents—almost unnatural. I’ve often asked his advice when I’ve been in a pinch. The only question is, has he the control to stand the strain of a long race? I’d like to see the boy win, Mrs. Norris——”
“You’re a good lad!” Mrs. Norris broke in nervously. “Go on; tell me some more. It’ll keep me from faintin’ away. You’re good as a drink, Mr. Tyler.”