While the men were sweating up the peak and throat halyards and heaving short on the anchor chain, Mr. Burgess and I sneaked below and interviewed the steward, with the result that we each got outside of a cup of fragrant coffee mellowed with some remarkable old cognac, carried on the Athlon for medicinal purposes only. Fortified with this we joined our shipmates on deck, giving an imitation of two men looking eagerly for work and praying to the gods not to be successful in the quest.
"Shall we get the jibtopsail out of the sail locker?" inquired young Mr. Havens of his father.
"I guess the weather looks more like a double-reefed mainsail than a jibtopsail," was the reply. So the jibtopsail reposed in the locker.
Bang! went the gun from the Cavalier. It was the signal to start. Anchors were broken out smartly, jibs were hoisted, and the squadron sailed out of the harbor and began the long and dreary beat to New London in the chilly, pelting rain.
As I remarked above, the Athlon requires a strong breeze to start her, and, although our anchor was up in good time, the smart sloop Anaconda, with Mr. Prague at the helm, looming up like a gray ghost in the mist, glided past us and assumed the lead of the fleet. The Anaconda was the only boat in her class that ever beat the swift Fife cutter Clara—an achievement that speaks volumes in her behalf.
