threw himself into the cabin, crying: "Mr.
Bennett, we must heave her to! She is opening
forward, sir! For God's sake, heave her
to!" In an instant Captain Samuels was below,
examining the supposed leak. The yacht had
been lengthened; the joining had not been
properly spliced; the sea had found out this
vulnerable heel of Achilles, and was working
hard to tear it open. Mr. Bennett calmly
informed his friends of the extent of the danger.
Everybody lighted a fresh cigar, and left the
affair in the hands of the captain. The captain
began by informing the carpenter, for the benefit
of the crew, that the apparent leakage was
caused by the oozing of the bilge-water. Then
he decided that the yacht could be driven no
longer, even though the race were lost. Next,
he gave orders to heave to. This nautical
manœuvre consists in laying the ship with her
head to the wind, under close canvas, so that
she rides as if at anchor. As the sailors came
into the cabin and carried the storm-trysails on
deck, it was as if they had brought forth a pall.
To stop in the midst of a race seemed equivalent
to losing it. This was the burial of all our hopes!

Thus the Henrietta was hove to in the
roaring forties, rocking lazily upon the sea,
the wind howling by, and the waves dashing
past her, but neither disturbing her well-earned
repose at this halfway house in the middle of
the Atlantic. It turned out afterwards that
we had been caught in a cyclone, from which
large steamers suffered severely. During this
dreadful night, the Fleetwing, further to the
northward, had six men washed overboard
and was nearly lost. The Vesta, sailing to
the southward, escaped all but the fringes
of the storm. But the captain assured us
that, though we had lost time, we had not
been driven from our course, and that, during
his thirty years' experience, he had never
seen any other vessel that could have
weathered such a gale so long. By noon the next
day, the wind had moderated, and we were
again under way. Up to this time, in accordance
with an old superstition of seamen, we
had not been allowed to change our clothes
since leaving New York. The wind had been
favourable, and the captain was resolved that
no fancy for a new necktie or another coat
should alter it. You might take off your clothing
as often as you pleased, so long as you put
the same things on again; but to change a
single garment would be fatal. Indeed, it is a
disputed point whether all our troubles in the
roaring forties, were not attributable to the
joker, who would persist in borrowing other
people's clothes. However, on the morning
after the gale, the wind still holding from the
south while the captain desired it to blow from
the northward, permission was given to vary
our attire. One of the stewards was
discovered to be a professional barber, and
everybody made an elaborate toilet. For a wonder,
the old superstition proved true; the wind
shifted to north-by-west, and at three P.M. we
were going at the rate of fifteen miles an
hour. During the storm of the day before,
we had run our shortest distance—one
hundred and fifty-three miles. Now, with a
favouring wind, we scored two hundred and
sixty miles in the same time. The day was
very pleasant, with bright sunshine and a
cloudless sky; but the waves still ran mountain
high, as if feeling the farewell impetus of
the gale. At night, the mellow moonlight
marked our course before us, and the Henrietta
danced gaily along between walls of water. The
weather was so warm that the cabin fire was
allowed to die out, and overcoats were discarded.

The next day was even warmer, and passed
without incident, the yacht making eleven
knots an hour, and the clouds prognosticating
a continuance of the fair wind. But,
on the day following this, summer itself
seemed to have come upon us. There was
a dead calm, and the heat was oppressive.
The clouds of the previous day had been as
deceitful as the barometer and the rainbow
already mentioned. The Henrietta simply
drifted through the water, her sails flapping
idly against the masts. The ocean was as
smooth as a millpond, and no ripple of the
waves, no creaking of the cordage, broke the
profound silence. Another superstitious change
of toilet was suggested, and again the charm
proved effectual. By noon we were making
eleven knots an hour. The next day was the
twenty-second of December. The yacht was
gliding along, at the rate of two hundred and
fifty miles per day. In the midst of a Scotch
mist we spoke the packet-ship Philadelphia,
eleven days out from Liverpool. We were also
eleven days out—from New York. The captain
of the Philadelphia hoisted the American
colours in our honour, and further endeared
himself to us by two items of good news, to
wit: that he had heard nothing of the other
yachts, and that the winds were westerly. This
was the only vessel spoken by the Henrietta
during the voyage. From this moment, the
excitement in regard to the result of the race,
which had been dulled by the greater excitements
of the sea, again seized upon us. Divine
service was performed on Sunday, but was
constantly interrupted by false reports of sails
in sight.

Every night the Henrietta seemed to sail
more swiftly. Nothing was talked about but the
other yachts and the probable fate of our rivals.
Nobody could spare an hour for sleep. The
light green water and the sullen sky
perpetually reminded us how close we were to
England. At three P.M. the captain informed us
that we were on soundings; at midnight we
were off Cape Clear; early next morning
we were in the chops of the Channel. The
goal was close at hand. Had we won the
race? The carpenter, who had treated us to
one sensation by his discovery that the yacht
had parted forwards, now indulged us with
another, by suddenly discovering the Fleetwing
to larboard. The scramble for binocular glasses,
telescopes, spectacles—anything to see through
—was most ludicrous; and, after all, the
imaginary yacht revealed herself as an English