“Drive her, Tommie!” roared a dozen voices, and Tommie drove her for a good pint before he set the cup down again.
It was a great celebration altogether. Wherever one of our gang was there was an admiring crowd. Nobody but us was listened to. And the questions we had to answer! And of course we were all willing enough to talk. We must have told the story of the race over about twenty times 269 each. After a while, of course, some of our fellows, with all the entertaining and admiration that was handed out to them, had to put a touch or two to it. It was strong enough to tell the bare facts of that race, I thought, but one or two had to give their imaginations a chance. One man, a fisherman, one of those who had been on one of the excursion boats, and so didn’t see the race at all, came along about two hours after the Duncan crew struck the Anchorage and listened to Andie Howe for a while. And going away it was he who said, “It must have been a race that. As near as I c’n make it out the Johnnie sailed most of that race keel up.”
“Oh, don’t go away mad,” Andie called after him. “Come back and have a little touch of carte blanche––it’s on the old man.”
“I’ll take it for him,” came a voice. It was old Peter of Crow’s Nest, who took his drink and asked for Clancy. Clancy was in the back part of the room, and I ran and got him. Peter led the way to the sidewalk.
“Tommie, go and get Maurice, if it ain’t too late.”
“What is it?”
“It’s Minnie Arkell. Coming up the dock after the race she ran up and grabbed him and threw her arms about his neck. ‘You’re the man to sail a 270 race in heavy weather,’ she hollers, and a hundred people looking on. And there’s half a dozen of those friends of hers and they’re up to her house and now making ready for a wine celebration. Go and get him before it is too late.”