“No,” said Burke, “but ye get ’em, all the same.  Everybody knows ye’ve th’ divil’s own luck, Schenke!”

“Und so you vas!  Look now, Cabtin Burke.  You t’nk you got so fast a sheep as mein, eh?  Veil!  Ah gif you a chanst to make money.  Ah bet you feefty dollars to tventig, Ah take mein sheep home quicker as you vass!”

“Done wit’ ye,” said stout old ‘Paddy’ Burke, though well he know the big German barque could sail round the little Hilda.  “Fifty dollars to twenty, Captain Schenke, an’ moind y’ve said it!”

The green boat sheered off and forged ahead, Schenke laughing and waving his hand derisively.  When they had pulled out of earshot, the old man turned ruefully to the mate:  “Five pounds clean t’rown away, mister!  Foine I know the Rickmers can baate us, but I wasn’t goin’ t’ let that ould ‘squarehead’ have it all his own way!  Divil th’ fear!”

We swung under the Hilda’s stern and hooked on to the gangway.  The old man stepped out, climbed a pace or two, then came back.

“Look ye here, byes,” he said, “I’ll give ye foive dollars a man—­an’ a day’s ‘liberty’ t’ spind it—­if ye only baate th’ ‘Dutchmen.’ . . .  Let th’ Cup go where it will!”

III

The Bay of San Francisco is certainly one of the finest natural harbours in the world, let Sydney and Rio and Falmouth all contest the claim.  Land-locked to every wind that blows, with only a narrow channel open to the sea, the navies of the world could lie peacefully together in its sheltered waters.  The coast that environs the harbour abounds in natural beauties, but of all the wooded creeks—­fair stretches of undulating downs—­or stately curves of winding river, none surpasses the little bay formed by the turn of Benita, the northern postern of the Golden Gates.  Here is the little township of Sancilito, with its pretty white houses nestling among the dark green of the deeply wooded slopes.  In the bay there is good anchorage for a limited number of vessels, and fortunate were they who manned the tall ships that lay there, swinging ebb and flood, waiting for a burthen of golden grain.

On Saturday the little bay was crowded by a muster of varied craft.  The ships at anchor were “dressed” to the mastheads with gaily-coloured flags.  Huge ferryboats passed slowly up and down, their tiers of decks crowded with sightseers.  Tug-boats and launches darted about, clearing the course, or convoying racing boats to the starting lines.  Ships’ boats of all kinds were massed together close inshore:  gigs and pinnaces, lean whaleboats, squat dinghys, even high-sided ocean lifeboats with their sombre broad belts of ribbed cork.  A gay scene of colour and animation.  A fine turn-out to see the fortune of the Merchants’ Cup.