'All aft, my sonnies!'
'Another pull at the mainsheet, my lads!'
Close hauled.
'Down spinnaker boom,' and now every thread draws and the whole sail is pulling hard. 'All aft, my sonnies!' and the skipper Parker seems to smile upon his pet. At this time bread and cheese and beer are served out, and form a very pleasant pendant to 'all aft' except the look-out, who took his mid-day in solitude by the unfilled foresail. A splendid dead run from the Lymington mark back to Cowes now takes place. See! 'Corsair's' spinnaker is here suddenly taken in, Sycamore, her skipper, having discovered that her mast was sprung, and he therefore went into Cowes. This was a great disappointment to us, and must have been to Admiral Victor Montagu, who so dearly loves racing, especially in a true wind. We were now cracking on for the Warner, our enjoyment only once disturbed by a hail from the look-out, 'Boat right under bow, sir,' and in the same breath, 'Only a photogger, sir,' and on we sped. Rounding the Warner 'Thalia' carried away her throat halliards, but soon continued the race. Rounding mark-boats and lightships is thrilling work, and beautifully it is done on 'Queen Mab.' It is delightful to see the judgment and decision, and how cheerily the hands haul on to the mainsheet; truly this is sport and excitement not easily beaten. 'Queen Mab' bends gracefully to it, and well it suits her; we are hissing through it. It is generally supposed that racing yachts are regularly gralloched and cleared out below; it is so in America and was done to 'Navahoe' in her races; but it is not so here. Everything is in its place, and when the head of the steward appears at the companion with the welcome words, 'Lunch, sir!' we find that all is well—but look out for the swinging table: touch that and there will be a ghastly crash. The 40-rater has the owner's cabin and the lady's cabin, with a very comfortable one for a guest, to say nothing of accommodation for sea bachelors who do not require shore luxury. The ladies' conning tower is generally the top step of the companion, but in the 'Seabelle' Mrs. Taylor had an armchair swung like a gimbal compass, in which she knitted comfortably at whatever angle the yacht might be in a seaway. After lunch we are close-hauled lying for Calshot Castle, hissing through it with a pleasant swish of spray, ever and anon making some of the hands duck their heads as they lie up to windward. Many is the dry remark and cheery yarn that one hears under these circumstances; not many words but much to the purpose, old recollections are revived, and there is always something to be learnt.