VII
A British Boy Wins Fortune and Title by American Business Methods.
THE lower bay was charged with subdued excitement everywhere as the “Water Witch” hove to alongside Sir Thomas J. Lipton’s “Erin,” and I stepped aboard. The hum of preparation for the great race was heard above the lapping waves. Fresh and keen came the breezes from the snowy ridges of the ocean’s breast. A thousand spreads of sail studded the bay, the great ships standing up in fixed majesty, the smaller vessels darting here and there in the wind, while right in the path of the sun’s glare lay the green hull of the “Shamrock.” Along the whitened shores beyond were hundreds of fishing craft dancing at their work, and in the offing were the smoke-stacks of the Atlantic liners.
“Good morning!” came a cheery sailor’s voice from the promenade deck. “Step right up here and you will get a better view of our little beauty.”
The voice belonged to Sir Thomas Lipton, and the “little beauty” was the dainty craft to which he had pinned his faith. The Scotch-Irish knight was as enthusiastic as a boy. With a cordial handshake, he led the way to the rail and pointed to the emerald swan below.
“There she is,” he tenderly exclaimed; “the pride of a nation; isn’t she a picture!” His tone fairly caressed the graceful thing. I fully expected to see him clamber down the rope-way and go out to pet her, as the Arab is said to pet his steed, but he satisfied himself by gazing at her and talking about her.
Confessedly, I was more interested in her owner than in the “Shamrock,” but I was too diplomatic to show it, so I quite won my way into his heart by praising her.
SIR THOMAS WAS WON.
“Sir Thomas,” I said, “I can’t say I hope she will win, but I hope she will come so close to it that she will turn us all green with envy!”
“Ah, my boy, that’s the spirit,” he said; “that’s why it’s a pleasure to race against you Americans. You meet a fellow more than half way.”