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You t'ink you beat de Hedwig Rickmers too, Cabtin? You beat 'm mit dot putty leetle barque? You beat 'm mit de Hilda, nichtwahr?" "Well, no," said our old man. "I don't exactly say I beat the Rickmers, but if I had the luck o' winds that ye had, bedad, I'd crack th' Hilda out in a hundred an' five days too!" "Now, dot is not drue, Cabtin! Aber ganz und gar nicht!
"Talk about being cocky," said Gregson; "you should hear Captain Schenke bragging about the way he brought the Hedwig Rickmers out. I heard 'em and the old man at it in the ship-chandler's yesterday. Hot . . . . Look here, you chaps! I don't think the old man cares so much to win the Cup as to beat Schenke!
Both rowed in the Worcester boat that left the Conways' at the start, three years ago. . . . And what about the Rickmers? . . . . No, no! It won't do to be too cocksure! . . . . Eh, Takia?" Takia was our cox-n, a small wiry Jap. Nothing great in inches, but a demon for good steering and timing a stroke. He was serving his apprenticeship with us and had been a year in the Hilda.
Suddenly there came a hail from the ship, a roar of orders, rattle of blocks and gear, the yards swung round and she layed up in the wind, while the ghostly glare of a blue light lit up the sea around. A crowd of men were gathered at the waist, now shouting and cheering as we laboured painfully into the circle of vivid light. Old Schenke? The Hedwig Rickmers? Aye Schenke!
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