Of the remainder of the run, some five or six miles, no member of the squadron is mentally fitted to give a correct account. Every one wanted to be first in port, and the Vice, in anticipation of being the fortunate man, had secretly extemporized a new star spangled banner to carry at the peak of his mainsail. But both Red Lakers shot ahead of the Chrysalids, and the Vice at last ignominiously took in his national ensign because it wasted a certain amount of wind.[11] Finding there was but one boat against him, the Cook assumed that he had himself already won the race, so he began to compose a sarcastic address to be delivered to his associates as one by one they rejoined him at whatever landing-place he might select. While he composed he heard a whiz, he saw a shadow, and the wind died (apparently) so suddenly that he barely had time to adjust the trim of his boat to avoid capsizing. Looking about him he saw the great sails of the flagship passing him to windward, and he heard the voice of the Commodore, in tones which no combination of type can express, shouting, "Come to the best hotel and see me when you get in!" So the Cook looked about for some excuse to make for what would be his probable tardiness, and he soon found it. As he flew past a large assemblage of rafts, he found their occupants, all Canadians, in an extreme fever of curiosity to know how the boats were steered; the wind being from their own bank, they could not see the steering-oar on the opposite side. They also looked upon the Red Lake boats, built in their own country, as utter strangers, which fact enabled the Cook to moralize, by comparison, upon the ignorance of people about their own neighbors, and upon the peculiar fancies which in such cases are made to do duty as facts. The Cook explained to the full extent of his knowledge and his French, and then, sighting the Chrysalids within a mile he sheared away, and within five minutes a swell from a steamer sent a wave of St. Lawrence water under his bows, and he saw the "Great Lone River of the North," from the midst of as entangling an alliance of steamers, barges, tugs, schooners, ferry-boats, yachts, fishing boats and pirogues as any canoe was ever imperilled of, while the Commodore lay under the lee of a decayed pier, and placidly smoked at his subordinate's confusion. The St. Lawrence was hailed with delight by the tardy Chrysalids when they reached it, and then the party strolled to the post office, debating whether to run up to Montreal, which course the wind favored, or down to Quebec, with the current and an occasional tide to help. All admitted that the cruise had but fairly begun; placid lakes and beautiful rivers were all very well, but, "Give to them the roaring seas And the white waves heaving high,"