“Perhaps not,” Mrs. Bardwell rejoined cheerily. “A race is never won till it’s done, you know, so hope to the finish.”
There were three in sight now, one following the other as closely and evenly as flying geese, but still the Thistle strove to the fore. That first mile up the bay, the girls hardly spoke, as they leaned over the iron chain that was stretched along the pier for safety. Their eyes were bright, their lips half-parted as they tried to watch every swerve, every manœuvre on the part of the racers. All at once Bess declared she knew the first vessel was the Adventure because there was a lady on deck, and she had waved to her.
“Bess Vaughan,” laughed Polly, “you make me think of the soldier in the fairy tale who was a sharpshooter and could aim at a fly on the limb of a tree five miles off. That boat is a mile and a half from us now.”
“Just you wait and see,” Bess retorted seriously. “Maybe it wasn’t her handkerchief, but I know it’s the Adventure.”
“Oh, girls,” exclaimed Isabel, excitedly. “See the big one dip sideways.”
“Sideways, child,” Aunt Cynthy repeated, merrily. “To leeward, dear heart, to leeward.”
Even at that distance it appeared as if the larger yacht had the best chance.
“I’m sure they could crowd on more sail,” Dorothy said, helplessly. “Why don’t they do it? Tom says there’s always room for another reef some place on a sloop.”
“That’s just what’s happening this minute,” Kate said. “The Thistle has every inch on she can carry, and there’s still over a mile to go.”
“Polly, if that old New York boat should win, I shall lie down on the sand, and simply, simply—” Isabel hesitated for lack of an apt expression, but Ted filled it in for her calmly.