It was half-past eight, and all were under way under mainsail
and jib.
The Solent was alive with yachts. They were pouring out from
Southampton water, they were coming up from Cowes, and some were
making their way across from Portsmouth. The day was a fine one for
sailing.
"Have you got the same extra hands as last time?" Frank asked the
skipper.
"All the same, sir. They all know their work well, and of course if
there is anything to be done aloft, our own men go up. I don't
think any of them will beat us in smartness."
As the time approached for the start, the racers began to gather in
the neighbourhood of the starting line; and as the five-minutes gun
fired, the topsail went up, and they began to sail backwards and
forwards near it.
As the Phantom crossed under the lee of the Osprey, the three
ladies waved their handkerchiefs to Frank, who took off his cap.
"May the best yacht win," Bertha called out, as the vessels flew
quickly apart.
"We could not want a better day, George," Frank said. "We can carry
everything comfortably, and there is not enough wind to kick up
much of a sea. As far as we are concerned, I would rather that the
wind had been either north or south, so that we could have laid our
course all round; as it is, we shall have the wind almost dead aft
till we are round the Nab, then we shall be close-hauled, with
perhaps an occasional tack along the back of the island, then free
again back.
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