rs were going by her. Captain Rosser
himself frankly told me that he did not like passengers, but when he
learned that I had been to sea before, and intended settling in Samoa
as a trader, his grim visage relaxed, and he growled something about
my finding the accommodation ample enough, as I was to be the only
passenger.

The _Rimitara_ was lying off Garden Island, and as she was to sail at
eleven in the morning I went on board at ten with the captain himself.
Just ahead of the barque was a very handsome brigantine, also bound for
the Friendly Islands. She had been launched only a few weeks previously,
and had been built for His Majesty King George of Tonga, at a cost of
L4,000, as a combined cargo and despatch vessel. As Rosser and I stepped
on the barque's poop the captain of the brigantine--whose decks were
crowded with visitors--hailed the former and challenged him to a race.

"Oh, race with yourself, sir," was Rosser's abrupt reply, as he bade
his chief mate heave up, and then seeing that a number of ladies were
standing beside the captain of the brigantine, he raised his hat, and
added more good-humouredly that although the _Rimitara_ was not a yacht
like the _Tuitoga_, he would bet the captain of the latter ten pounds
that the barque would be at anchor in Nukualofa Harbour forty-eight
hours before him.

"Make it fifty," cried the master of the new ship, amid the cheers of
his guests.

Rosser shook his head, and replied with apparent unconcern (though he
was really angry) that ten pounds was enough for any one to lose. "But,"
he added, "don't think I'm going to race you. I'm just going to dodder
along as usual." (He kept his word most thoroughly.)

We got underway first, and were just passing out between Sydney Heads
under easy sail, when the brigantine overtook us, and passed us like a
race-horse galloping past a trotting donkey. She presented a beautiful
sight as she swept by with yards braced up sharp to a good south-east
breeze, and every stitch of her brand-new canvas drawing. One of the
officers had the bad manners to take up a coil of small line, and make
a pretence of heaving it to us for a tow rope. Rosser looked on with an
unmoved face, though our own mate made some strong remarks.

"Guess it's that champagne he's drunk," was all that Rosser said as he
turned away, and I have no doubt he was right, for we afterwards learned
that nearly every one aft on board the brigantine was half-drunk when
she