"Oh dear!" said Admiral Stuyvesant Rankin to himself, in the bows. "If the yacht upsets, I'm the only member of the club that's got a new coat on."
The breeze came fresher and fresher, and in a minute more the Hail Columbia was out of reach of the "battery" on the pier head. Her sable owner, however, was watching her from the door of his cabin with genuine pride.
"Don't she go! Don't she jest slip fru de watah! She does moah sailin' to de squar' foot dan any odder yot on de ribber."
So she did, if he meant that it took her longer to travel that foot, or any other.
It was no joke to be "Bo's'n" of the Hail Columbia, as Bob Fogg soon found out.
"Tell you what, boys," he said, "it's 'cause she hasn't any keel on her. I have to keep steering all the while. There's no saying where she won't go to."
"Keep along shore," shouted the Admiral from the bows. "You're heading out into the river."
"Now, Sty, if you think you can steer this yacht better than I can, just you come aft and try."
"Hey, there, you young pirates! Where are you heading for?"
It was the shout of a big-armed young fellow in a shell race-boat, who found himself suddenly compelled to pull to the right desperately to avoid being run down by the Hail Columbia.