“I’d like to see him win,” Tyler continued, “though, of course, I’m going to make him work. There’s nothing more merciless in these parts than the yacht races, you know.”
“Sure, we’re not askin’ for any gifts,” chirped Phœbe, “but I thank you for the encouragin’ word, just the same, Mr. Tyler.”
It was close to three o’clock, the starting time, and Walter, with the help of Wheelen, was hoisting the mainsail. This was hint enough for Jawn and Richard to get on board. One searching glance around the grounds before Richard stepped from the dock into the Sago-ye-wat-ha gave no sign of Geraldine. As he took his place at the port-stays and coiled his ropes he wondered if she would come down, or if she were still marching away across the hills with “Count.” Discouragement seized him, a rare mood of this optimistic man, and for several dismal minutes he lost his faith in “the gods” who held all things in their capacious laps.
When the “get ready” gun sounded the wind was half a gale and pointing almost directly up the Lake. The judges were questioning the wisdom of starting, but evidently decided to take a chance, for in a moment or two the starting gun went off and the Pluma, a small boat with a three-minute handicap, crossed the line, and the race was on. The Aurora followed a half-minute later and then came the anxious wait of two minutes while the Cohlosa and the Moodiks jockeyed along the edge of the starting line, each eager to get into the best position when their signal-gun should set them free. The Cohlosa and the Moodiks were boats of the same sail area, so their handicap was identical. Sago-ye-wat-ha carried a slightly larger mainsail, a matter of inches only, but it forced her to take the “scratch” position, a half-minute back of her two “Class A” rivals.
Both the Cohlosa and the Moodiks had taken the precaution of a single reef. Walter had not shown his hand until close to the starting minute. His mainsail was only half hoisted. But the moment the two “Class A” yachts nosed across the line—Fagner, as usual, getting the best position—he raised the sail and disclosed three reefs. It was a type of caution that the yachtsmen on shore did not expect of Walter Wells.
“Afraid of trouble?” Richard asked.
“No,” said Walter. “Want speed. Can’t get speed when she’s half on keel.”
So many exciting things were happening at once that hardly anyone noticed the Sago-ye-wat-ha as she struck the line with the gun. The Pluma had dropped her sail and her men were busy trying to keep it from ripping away. The Aurora had come right about into the wind. Her men were bailing like good fellows. Fagner and Tyler were beating over to the Willow Grove buoy bent nearly level with the water.
The Sago-ye-wat-ha stood up well and with her three reefs was able to steer a straight course. At Willow Grove the three boats seemed to be entangled. The judges were on tiptoe, glasses to face, watching for possible fouls, but no one was ready to see the Sago-ye-wat-ha move sedately around the buoy and fly off before the wind in the lead. In the first leg she had made up her half-minute handicap!
The strength of the wind was made instantly clear to the spectators on shore. By the recorded time Walter had nosed around the first buoy just six seconds ahead of Fagner, but while those six seconds were being ticked off he was speeding up the Lake with the gale behind him. As they all broke out in a line for the two-mile run north the gap between the first two boats seemed leagues.