“You want us to lose this race, you sawney!” he exclaimed.
I was convinced that, for his part, he was more anxious to beat the Gullwing’s crew—and incidentally his brother—than to save any life there might be remaining on the wreck.
But perhaps I misjudged Mr. Alfred Barney. We were all excited. Even I, who had no reason for wishing to see the Seamew’s boat win, pulled my oar with every last ounce of strength I possessed. Mr. Barney had accused me without warrant of trying to throw the race.
The two racing boats were not head-on to each other, but were approaching the wreck at an angle that now brought each in sight of the other. When the Gullwing’s boat flashed into the range of my eyes I saw half a dozen of the men I knew. There was Thankful Polk, heaven bless him, and Mr. Jim Barney at the steering oar. The sight of them made me feel good all over.
But I could not see the wreck now without twisting my head around. And if I did that I knew I should bring the wrath of our second mate upon me. The Gullwings cheered. For a moment I did not know what for. Could they be winning?
And then Thank’s jolly voice reached me across the stretch of sea:
“Hurray, Clint! Go it, old boy! You’re a sight for sore eyes!”
But I had no breath with which to answer. And I reckon if he had been pulling his oar as I was, he would not have been so boisterous.
The strain of the last few minutes of the race was terrific. My breath came in great sobs, and I heard the other men with me groan as they strained at the heavy oars. We were about all in.
“Pull, you tarriers!” barked Mr. Alf Barney again.