We passed The Bottle at 2.30 P.M. What had become of the _Anne Nemone_ I don't know, and probably we should never have seen her again had not our captain, who was trying to sight the port after passing The Bottle, stood on the wrong tack, which ran into his boot and hurt him awfully. He was carried below, and we gathered round him as he turned to the _Naughty Lass_ and murmured--but POLLY objected that there was nothing to murmur about or to grumble at, and that the sooner he stumbled on deck the better it would be for the race. So up rose our brave captain, took a stiff draught of weather bilge (which is the best preventive of sea-sickness), and calling for his first mate, Mr. JACK YARD TOPSAIL, told him to "stand away," which I could quite understand, for JACK YARD TOPSAIL is a regular salt, full of tar, rum, 'baccy, and everything that can make life sweet to _him_, but not to his immediate neighbours. So "stand away" and not "stand by" it was, and when we got to Squeams Bay the sailors took a short hitch (it is necessary occasionally--but I cannot say more--lady-readers being present), and we went streaking away like a side of bacon on a fine day. "Are we winning?" asks POLLY, the Wind Lass. "_You_ look winning!" I reply, politely. "By how much?" she inquires, just tucking up her skirts, and showing a trim ankle. The Captain, with his glass to his eye, and looking down, answers, "The fifth of a long leg!" I never saw a woman so angry! "I haven't!" she exclaimed; and there would have been a row, and we should never have won, as we did splendidly, had not the "First Officer" (just as they name the supernumeraries in a play) come up and reminded Pretty POLLY that she wasn't the only mate the Captain had on board. "Where's the other?" she cried, in a fury. "Below!" answered the First Officer, and down went POLLY, not to re-appear again until all was over, and our victorious binnacle was waving proudly from the fore-top-gallant. At the finish we went clean into harbour, without a speck on our forecastle, or a stain on our character. I wire you the account of this great race, and am (Rule BRITANNIA!) Yours, "EVERY OTHER INCH A SAILOR!" P.S.--I am informed that after I left the vessel--in fact it was next day--a Burgee was run up at the mast head. I suppose some sort of court-martial was held first, and that the Burgee (poor wretch!) was caught red-handed. Still, in these days, this sort of proceeding does sound rather tyrannical. High-masted justice, eh? Well, sea-dogs will be sea-dogs. I don't exactly know what a Burgee is, but I fancy he is something between a Buccaneer and a Bargee; a sort of river-and-sea pirate. But I fear it is a landsman!! Burgee, masculine (and probably husband) of Burgess!! If so, there _will_ be a row! YOURS AS BEFORE THE MAST. * * * * *