“In case of doubt,” I asked Tom, “who gives way—the Seamew or the Gullwing?”
“Why, the Seamew, of course,” growled Tom.
“Are you sure?”
“I be,” he said, emphatically. “No gittin’ around it. It has to be her gives way—not us. Both of us are close-hauled, that’s a fact; but we on this tack has the right of way. The Seamew’s got to come about and give us the road.”
“She don’t look like she would,” I said, gravely.
“Of course she will!”
“Then she’ll miss meeting the other tug this time. It will give us a big advantage.”
“Don’t ye suppose our skipper knows that?” returned Tom, with a wide grin. “That’s what he aimed to do. Oh, Cap’n Joe is a cleaner, now I tell ye!”
It did look to me as though the two great ships were rushing together. If they had been two old-time frigates, aiming to come to a clinch and the crews ordered to “board with cutlass,” the appearance of the two could have been no more threatening.
The Seamew’s men were grouped along her rail and swinging in her lower shrouds, watching us; and every person aboard the Gullwing, including the cook, was on deck. I heard Captain Bowditch growling to himself: