Over on the other tack we went, first the Withrow, then the Johnnie. We were nearing the finish line, and we were pretty well worked up--the awful squalls were swooping down and burying us. We could hear Hollis's voice and see his crew go up when he warned his men at the wheel to ease up on her when the squalls hit. On our vessel the skipper never waved an arm nor opened his mouth to Clancy at the wheel. And of his own accord you may be sure that Clancy wasn't easing up. Not Tommie Clancy--no, sir--he just drove her--let her have it full--lashed her like, with his teeth and eyes flashing through the sea that was swashing over him. And the Johnnie fairly sizzled through the water. There were several times in the race when we thought the going was as bad as could be, but now we were all sure that this was the worst of all. There was some excuse for Mr. Duncan when he called out: "My God, Tommie, but if she makes one of those low dives again, will she ever come up?" "I dunno," said Clancy to that. "But don't you worry, Mr. Duncan, if any vessel out of Gloucester'll come up, this one'll come up." He was standing with the water, the clear water, not the swash, well up to his waist then, and we could hear him: "Oh, I love old Ocean's smile, I love old Ocean's frowning-- I love old Ocean all the while, My prayer's for death by drowning." That was too much for Mr. Duncan, and, watching his chance, he dove between the house and rail, to the weather rigging, where the skipper grabbed him and made him fast beside himself. The old man took a look down the slant of the deck and took a fresh hold of the rigging. "Captain Blake, isn't she down pretty low?" "Maybe--maybe--Mr. Duncan, but she'll go lower yet before the sail comes off her. This is the day Sam Hollis was going to make me take in sail." Less than a minute after that we made our rush for the line. Hollis tried to crowd us outside the stake-boat, which was rolling head to wind and sea, worse than a lightship in a surf gale--tried to crowd us out just as an awful squall swooped down. It was the Johnnie or the Withrow then. We took it full and they didn't, and there is all there was to it. But for a minute it was either vessel's race. At the critical time Sam Hollis didn't have the nerve, and the skipper and Clancy did. They looked at each other--the skipper and Clancy--and Clancy soaked her. Held to it cruelly--recklessly. It was too much to ask of a vessel. Down she went--buried. It was heaven or hell, as they say, for a while. I know I climbed on to her weather run, and it was from there I saw Withrow ducking her head to it--hove to, in fact, for the blast to pass. The Johnnie weathered it. Able--able. Up she rose, a horse, and across the line we shot like a bullet, and so close to the judge's boat that we could have jumped aboard.