"Are we winning?" asks Polly, the Wind Lass. "You look winning!" I reply, politely. "By how much?" she inquires, just tucking up her skirts, and showing a trim ankle. The Captain, with his glass to his eye, and looking down, answers, "The fifth of a long leg!" I never saw a woman so angry! "I haven't!" she exclaimed; and there would have been a row, and we should never have won, as we did splendidly, had not the "First Officer" (just as they name the supernumeraries in a play) come up and reminded Pretty Polly that she wasn't the only mate the Captain had on board. "Where's the other?" she cried, in a fury. "Below!" answered the First Officer, and down went Polly, not to re-appear again until all was over, and our victorious binnacle was waving proudly from the fore-top-gallant. At the finish we went clean into harbour, without a speck on our forecastle, or a stain on our character. I wire you the account of this great race, and am (Rule Britannia!)
Yours,
"Every Other Inch a Sailor!"
P.S.—I am informed that after I left the vessel—in fact it was next day—a Burgee was run up at the mast head. I suppose some sort of court-martial was held first, and that the Burgee (poor wretch!) was caught red-handed. Still, in these days, this sort of proceeding does sound rather tyrannical. High-masted justice, eh? Well, sea-dogs will be sea-dogs. I don't exactly know what a Burgee is, but I fancy he is something between a Buccaneer and a Bargee; a sort of river-and-sea pirate. But I fear it is a landsman!! Burgee, masculine (and probably husband) of Burgess!! If so, there will be a row!
Yours as Before the Mast.
"A FRIEND IN NEED—"
Anarchist. "'ELP! 'ELP! PER-LICE!!"
Constable. "'DOWN WITH EVERYTHING,' INDEED! LUCKY FOR YOU YOU HAVEN'T 'DOWN'D' ME!!"