“Take a short tack out and back, Fred,” he urged. “I’ll watch the time.”
“Hard-a-lea!” called Fred as he put the tiller over and the Balsam came around into the wind. His crew quickly shifted sides, the sheet was hauled taut, and the trim little boat scudded swiftly along before the fresh breeze.
“Better go back now,” advised Grant when they had covered fifteen or twenty yards. He scarcely lifted his eyes from his watch which he still held in his right hand. “We’ve got a minute and a half more.”
Once more the Balsam came about and began to retrace its short course towards the starting line. The Spruce was just off its starboard side, with bow pointing directly into the wind and consequently was almost stationary.
“We’ll cross the line too soon,” exclaimed John nervously. “We’ll have to come back if we do.”
“Leave that to me,” said Grant confidently, his eyes still on the second-hand of his watch. “I’ll look out for that.”
“We’re not a dozen feet from the line now though,” cried John in alarm. “You’d better come around, Fred.”
“Don’t you do it,” exclaimed Grant sharply.
Closer and closer to the line they came. John, and for that matter Fred and George also were intensely nervous for fear they should cross the line before the signal. Grant, however, seemed confident that they were on the safe side.
“We’ll have to turn around and start all—” began John, when Grant suddenly interrupted him.