and laid on the windlass
wildcat, a fire was kindled in the galley and a collation laid in the
saloon. The owner was aboard.

Hat Tyler was very much in evidence, fore and aft, giving orders to the
crew as to what was to be done as soon as the ship left the ways.

"I want that starboard hook dropped the minute we get the red buoy
abeam. Understand? Jake Hawkins, you stand by the windlass. Take care
when you snub her not to break that friction band. And stand by to let
go the other hook in case we need it. This harbor ain't much bigger than
a ten-quart can, when all is said."

Hat was dressed in a splendid traveling suit of heavy brocaded stuff.
She wore an enormous green-and-purple hat and carried a green bottle
with red, white and blue streamers tied round its neck. Being skipper
and a lady at one and the same time, she had chosen to christen the ship
herself.

"What's in the bottle, Hat?" sang out one of her admirers.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Hat retorted wittily. She was in high
spirits.

"Ain't it a waste of good stuff!" shouted another. "I guess it ain't
everybody that can be trusted to christian a ship these hard times."

"It ain't the last drink she will get either," a more remote voice
floated up to her. "I hear she's taking rum to France from Porto Rico."

Hat Tyler took a firmer grip of the bottle under its streamers, for this
was the voice of Pearl Higgins.

Time pressed. Already the shore gang were splitting out the keel blocks.
The whole town stood at gaze. The children had been let out of school. A
group of the larger ones were gathered on the after deck, ready to sing
America when the ship took the water. It was a gala day. Hat felt that
all eyes were centered on her, and her commands rolled along the decks
like so many red-hot solid shot.

The strokes of the men under her keel rang faster and faster yet. When
the last block was split out from under that oaken keel it was expected
that the ship would settle on the ways, that two smooth tallowed
surfaces would come together, that the ship and all her five hundred
tons would move the fraction of an inch, would slip, would slide, would
speed stern foremost into what is called her native element. But ships
are notional, and these expectations are sometimes dashed.

And now Elmer and his wife, who were stationed ankle deep in that yellow
sea of chips under her prow, could see the brows of the shore gang
beaded with sweat, and a look of desper