ain contemplated them dispassionately.

"You're a cheerful-looking lot to start out with to win the cup back!"
was his comment. "Oars ready! 'Way together!"

The crew, like a child that suddenly tires of being naughty, bent to
their oars, and the boat slid through the water under long, swinging
strokes....

* * * * *

Regatta-day broke calm and clear. The hands were piped to breakfast,
and the Quartermaster of the Morning Watch, as the latest authority on
the vagaries of the barometer, entered the Petty Officers' mess with
the air of one in the intimate confidence of the High Gods.

"Glass 'igh an' steady," he announced, helping himself to sausage and
mashed potatoes. "We'll 'ave it calm till mebbe five o'clock, then
it'll blow from the south'ard. That's down the course. But we won't
'ave no rain to-day."

The Captain of the Forecastle, who read his "Old Moore's Almanac," and
was susceptible to signs and portents, confirmed the optimism of the
Quartermaster.

"I 'ad a dream last night," he said. "I was a-walkin' with my missus
alongside the Serpentine--in London, that is. There was swans sailin'
on it, an' we was 'eavin' bits of bread to 'em. 'Fred,' she says,
'you'll 'ave it beautiful for your regatta. You'll win,' she says,
'the Stokers' Cutters, the Vet'rans' Skiff's, the Orficers' Gigs, an'
the All-comers.'"

"That's along of you eatin' lobster for supper last night," said the
Ship's Painter, a sceptic who had a sovereign on a race not mentioned
by the Captain of the Forecastle's wife. "Wot about the perishin'
Boys' Cutters? Didn't your old Dutch say nothin' about them?"

The seer shook his head and performed intricate evolutions with a pin
in the cavernous recesses of his mouth.

"Mebbe she would 'ave if she'd 'ad the chanst," was the reply. "But
she didn't 'ave time to say no more afore the Reveille interrupted 'er,
an' I 'ad to turn out."

The Quartermaster of the Morning Watch concluded his repast. "Well,"
he said, "Mebbe she'll tell you the rest to-night. Then we'll know
'oo's 'oo, as the sayin' is. But there's one crew as I'll put my shirt
on, an' that's the Orficers' Gigs."

"'Ow about the Boys' Cutters?" demanded the Ship's Painter whose
sovereign was in jeopardy.

"_An'_ the Vet'rans' Skiffs," echoed the Captain of the Forecastle,
"what my wife mentioned? 'Fred,' she says----"

"An' the All-comers," interrupted the Captain of the Side, "wiv the
C