Here’s another Bail Boy Billy story from CC Faulkner, Sydney Mail 4 November 1925.
A Romance of Sydney Harbour
By C. C. Faulkner
BAIL BOY BILLY, skipper for the day of the six foot dinghy Radio, kissed his crew while navigating the tiny tub down the harbour. Three is a crowd in a six-footer; two is the ship's company. Marjory pushed him away, for five perilous seconds the dinghy trembled, uncertain whether to capsize or go a little further.
I suppose fully half the open boat fraternity of Sydney Harbour will deny the possibility of Billy's achievement. A six is the 'tenderest' craft in the world. It is as stable in equilibrium as a worm on a pin or a blindfolded intoxicated old-age pensioner walking Blondin in hobbles on a clothes line. To move in a six is to tempt Providence, to reach out an arm or a leg is to risk a swim, to lean forward as Billy now did is almost certain disaster.
They who go down to the sea in the racing six-footers must sit still, or their sail will change to desolation while they hold on to an upturned wreck, and the occupants of every passing skiff and open boat guffaw in mockery. Nevertheless Bail Boy Billy wantonly and with vehemence kissed his crew. He performed still more greatly. Holding the tiller in his left hand, he transferred the mainsheet from his right hand to the prehensile toes of his left foot, reached for the girl, and pulled her to him. Marjory and the dinghy thrilled with emotion; each settled comfortably again; Billy stood on his course.
PERHAPS some who do not know the allurement of the open boat fleet have been misled into reading thus far in the belief that this is a love story. To any such 1 say, 'Pass on: this yarn is not for you.' You will not learn how the Bail Boy won the affection of this enchanting damsel. That had already been done. The event dates back from the time they broke the spinnaker spar in the 18-footer Aerial and fell into the water together; by this time they were old pals and next thing to 'engaged.' Billy is looking forward to a unique wedding. His plan is to be married on Clark Island on a Saturday afternoon after the 18 footers' race. Marjory and her people are to go to the island by steamer; all hands in the racing fleet are to attend in their sailing costumes — guernseys, shorts, and bare feet. Billy sees in his mind's eye the whole 32 boats tied in the lee of the island and 350 of his colleagues and rivals, dripping wet from the race, grinning their congratulations. Then he and his bride will leave for their honeymoon in a manner original and unprecedented. He will borrow an 18-footer — doubtless Lan Taylor will lend his old Federal or Quibree — and to the cheers of the multitude he, Billy the Bail Boy, and Marjory will sail away to a secluded week-end cottage in the upper readies of Middle Harbour. Billy has it all mapped out, but the time is not set.
IF Marjory tried to push Billy away it was only because she did not fancy a swim just then, not because she had any objection to Billy — far from it. The Bail Boy is regarded by his companion as the personification of everything manly. How could it be otherwise? Has she not seen him and his bail dish in action as the 18-foot fleet, speeds round the double triangle? What girl could fail to admire the principal member of a sailing crew, especially in these effeminate days when young men are led aside from hardy sports to such frivolities as cricket, football, hockey, long-distance running, cycling, and boxing? Billy had conceived a brilliant idea to get the girl to himself for a whole Sunday. In the absence of the owner, he had assumed temporary possession of a six-footer which was conveniently housed in the same shed as Mississippi. This morning, amid the banter of his comrades, Billy had rigged the tiny craft, and with Marjory had sailed out of Lavender Bay in triumph.
READER, have you ever been in a six-foot dinghy? Do you know of your personal experience what a delicate craft she is to handle? Doubtless you have been in an eighteen; probably you used to sail with the old 22-footers; I take it for granted you comprehend the alacrity with which it is necessary to move to preserve the balance. Maybe you have travelled in a 16ft skiff with no lee-cloth, when the only thing between you and a compulsory swim was your capacity to keep her balanced. It may even have been your pride and good fortune to know the joys of sailing a fourteen-footer, a twelve, a ten, or an eight — each a little more difficult to navigate than the next larger. But have you ever been in a six? Do you know the joyous thrill when first you plant your bare foot on the exact centre of the boat while the whole business shakes with fear like a jelly at the approach of a bad boy? Do you know that anxious moment when, having pushed out from the shelter of the shed, the breeze strikes you and Tom Thumb cants to leeward and takes in a few admonitory gallons of the harbour? I assume you have experienced or at least know of these things — else why waste time reading a tale like this? BAIL BOY' BILLY was rounding Milson's Point. He and Marjory settled snugly in the bottom of the boat; Billy shook out the main sheet, and the light westerly wafted Radio down the harbour. The vehicular ferry Kondooloo loomed ahead. Billy regarded her indifferently. When a steam vessel and a sailing vessel are proceeding in such directions as to involve risk of collision , the steam vessel shall keep out of the way of the sailing vessel.
Billy knows article 20 of the regulations for preventing collisions at sea even better than he knows his catechism and the Athanasian Creed. I suppose there were 45 motor-cars crowded on the Koondooloo, which is built to carry 42. Usually the Bail Boy has no compunction about holding up their passengers while his sailing boat passes, but to-day he could afford to be generous. Time was nothing; he waved the skipper of the big punt to keep on going and pulled the dinghy round the stern. Billy rolled one lazy eye round the horizon, saw that the fairway was tolerably clear, and centred his attention on his ship-mate. Chairs are not included in the equipment of a sailing dinghy. Marjory lay along the floor of the boat garbed in a Canadian costume, the water that had come over the side swirled in little eddies round her feet; her head by this time was nestling on the Bail Boy's knee. Billy was almost as happy as when he was wielding the bail dish in the midst of the 18-foot fleet. y A half-decked cruiser approached, heading up the g harbour. A vessel which is running free shall keep out of the way of a vessel which is close-hauled. Billy obeyed the rule punctiliously. The picnic party swept by, displaying much interest in the occupants of the six-footer.
The gentle westerly wafted Radio and company to the spot where Billy the Bail Boy had planned to spend the day. Not many know of this delightful nook: few land there. Landing is prohibited; the beach is part of the Quarantine grounds. This fact did not worry Billy. Germs, bacteria, and bacilli never troubled him, and he rightly calculated that the chance of being caught trespassing was remote. As for Marjory, she left it to Billy.
And now behold the Bail Boy luff up his little craft, pull out the dagger fin, jump over the side, and steady the boat for Marjory. Billy found it necessary to carry his girl and her Canadian costume ashore, for the water was fully knee-deep. The crew of Radio spent a very happy day. They swam, basked in the sun, lunched, swam again, and basked in the sun still further.
Yet there was one fly in the cream. By all the rules of the weather the light westerly breeze should have veered round to a nice north-easter by midday. The north-easter is our prevailing afternoon wind. It is the harbinger of happiness for all who spend their leisure afloat. It is the basis of every sailing event. When the yachts hold their annual all-day ocean race they go north to the Hawkesbury, instead of south to Port Hacking, simply to get the run home with the north-easter behind. The eighteens, with their turning points fixed at Clark Island. Taylor Bay, George's Head light, Sow and Pigs, Shark Island, and Rose Bay, take the course which gives them a thrash to start and a leading breeze to finish. Even so was it when the old twenty-twos used to race from Goat Island to Manly and back; even so is it with the skiffs, the fourteens, the tens, and the sixes.
So also with Billy. He had reckoned on an easy romp home with the jib and mainsheet loose, the fin up to the lugs, and nothing to do except look after the tiller and Marjory. But the westerly had shifted only as far as south-west — giving the six-footer a dead slog all the way. The commander of Radio watched it with care, and at length made the sad announcement that they must leave at 4 o'clock if they wanted to he back for tea.
BA1L BOY BILLY was not the only one who had miscalculated the wind. On Saturdays most of the boats on the Happy Harbour are racing, and difficulties are expected: but Sunday is the day for Pleasure sailing, the day when the racing fleet mostly stays in the sheds and half the boats afloat carry large cargoes of youth and girlhood pursuing the elusive butterfly of bliss. All such craft were up against the task of heading back in face of an adverse breeze. If it is true that it is the homeward run during which sentimentality and youthful ecstasy flow freest, many young hearts besides those of Bail Boy Billy and Marjory must have felt disappointed. Chagrin engenders sourness of disposition and recklessness of behaviour, as Billy and Marjory now discovered. A vessel winch is close-hauled on the port tack shall keep out of the way of a vessel which is close-hauled on the starboard tack. In spite of this wholesome regulation, every time the diminutive Radio and another boat met on opposing tacks Billy was forced to go about or risk a collision. When he was on the port tack he gave way without hesitation, but Billy's wrath rose high as time after time some hulking cruiser or half-decker, laden with girls who could not compare with Marjory, sailed on her wrong tack up to Radio, and a be-sandshoed loon motioned Billy out of the way. Billy observed with grief and pain that the law of the harbour had changed. Small boats had to give way to medium-sized boats, which in turn had to keep clear of those still larger. A six-footer is the smallest vessel that floats anywhere in the world. It is the grand masterpiece of naval architecture, but to-day Billy andMarjory were outclassed. Billy the Bail Boy is not of the type to take affronts lying down. Twice he was forced about.
The next to come at him was a rater, in which his trained eye discerned three gaudily-attired girls and three smart flannelled young men, with not a bare foot in the crowd. The females wore high-heeled shoes: two of the men had boots on, and one was in shoes. How the Bail Boy detests folk who trample booted on the planks of sailing craft! Billy would no more think of entering a boat without first removing his footgear than a Moslem of entering a mosque.
The rater came on, and a languid youth at the tiller took his attention from his party to motion Billy off the harbour. The Bail Boy fixed on him a baleful glare, pointed Radio into the eye of the wind, and rushed at the rater like a swordfish at a whale. A puff of the breeze caught the dinghy; Billy motioned his companion to hang out a little further: the high-heeled females screeched — even Marjory held her breath — Radio's bumpkin stabbed at the hull of the rater. But before the blow struck home Billy jammed bard on the tiller and adroitly pulled round his charge. As the mainsail flapped about he emptied his trusty bail-dish over the aquatic road hogs. 'Good enough for them, Billy — the horrid creatures,' observed Marjory, to which the Bail Hand replied: 'No more rules of the road for me; all the rules I'll want, alter this will depend on the size of my boat.'
It is a long, hard thrash for a six from the Quarantine Station to Lavender Bay in a south-wester. The fun had gone out of the trip by the time Billy and Marjory reached their destination. They had been put about so often by boats on the wrong tack that the Bail Boy — I grieve to mention it — was sullen with wrath. He had bottled up so many violent expressions out of regard for the feelings of his crew that he had at length been reduced to speechlessness. Marjory's vivacity likewise had waned ; the cold of the spray and the edge of the adverse breeze made her snuggle as close to Billy as the shape of a six-footer permits, and wait for the voyage to end. For the last time they were thrown out of their course — by a ferry steamer on this occasion — and now Radio pointed on the port tack for the boatshed. Lo, towards them came sailing a model yacht. Clean and white her sails, this 18inch midget, inclined to the breeze and danced over the waves like a fairy barque. Fifty yards behind in a canoe paddled Bob Budnick, the master who had set her on her course. Have you ever heard the shopwalker bully the head of the ribbons and lace department, and heard the latter in turn snap the first sales? Have you noticed how a fox-terrier, escaping from the onslaught of a greyhound or Airedale wreaks vengeance on the first Pomeranian he meets? Why is it that the small boy, cracking hardy from the dry shaves or muscle-grinders of a youth of larger mould immediately assails the neat little chap whose mother has made him so pretty? These be fundamental impulses rooted deep in the nature of animals and humans. Bail Boy Billy, the young animal, is very human. Here at last was something smaller than his own boat. Billy brightened while he hauled the main sheet tighter and gripped the tiller firmer. In his soul stirred a fierce passion to wipe out the heaped-up tyrannies of the day. Did I say the toy boat, was on the starboard tack? She was, whereas Billy had the tiller of Radio in his right hand. His feet were firmly braced; the model sped straight down the bay. Billy's aim was perfect: he bore down on his victim as a shark on a salmon.
The gentle Marjory discerned Billy s purpose and thrilled sympathetically. Judge her not adversely, or I will know that you have not had the experience which Radio's crew had been through. From the punt came the voice of Bob Budnick : 'Look where you're going, Billy.' '1 know where I'm going. Watch me,' rapped out the Bail Hand. 'Can't you see the model?' yelled the skipper of Mississippi. 'Yes; but 1 don't like the cut of her. I'm going to remodel her.' The joy of the moment made Billy facetious. Marjory smiled happily. She laid her hand on the helmsman's wrist. 'Good on you, Billy.'
ACROSS the top of the water raced one of the sudden puffs of wind which the sailing fraternity call 'black 'uns.' Billy braced his little craft to meet it: the six-footer sprang. A glad symphony, blended of the crushing of splintered wood and the tearing of sails, fell melodiously on the ears of Bail Boy Billy. Immoderate laughter broke from Bob, he shook with mirth : his peals of merriment were echoed from the boatshed, where the whole of Mississippi's crew was lined up watching the sport. 'Good shot, Billy,' shouted Algy May, and the crowd burst into renewed merriment. The humour of the situation was not apparent to the Bail Hand. Truth to tell, he was a little ashamed of his exploit. He ran Radio alongside the retaining wall and helped Marjory to land.
Bob Budnick gathered up the wreckage and rowed ashore. His laughter had subsided to a chuckle. The crew of Mississippi crowded round; Bob offered the salvage to Billy. 'There's not. much left of her,' he remarked, 'but you might as well have what there is.' '1 don't want it; give it to the owner, replied the Bail Boy. Mississippi's crew laughed in chorus. 'Well, I'm offering her to you,' Bob made answer. The Mississippians laughed as if to burst. 'She's not mine; my model was white.' Billy was getting annoyed. His comrades roared again. She was white, but now she's green,' Bob stated cheerfully. 'I painted her for you this morning. I was just giving her a trial spin.' Billy scowled dourly; the hard answer that rounds up wrath was on the tip of his tongue. Then Marjory's soprano laughter broke into the ribaldry. 'Never mind. Billy,' she said, 'I'll help you make a new one.’
A Romance of Sydney Harbour
By C. C. Faulkner
BAIL BOY BILLY, skipper for the day of the six foot dinghy Radio, kissed his crew while navigating the tiny tub down the harbour. Three is a crowd in a six-footer; two is the ship's company. Marjory pushed him away, for five perilous seconds the dinghy trembled, uncertain whether to capsize or go a little further.
I suppose fully half the open boat fraternity of Sydney Harbour will deny the possibility of Billy's achievement. A six is the 'tenderest' craft in the world. It is as stable in equilibrium as a worm on a pin or a blindfolded intoxicated old-age pensioner walking Blondin in hobbles on a clothes line. To move in a six is to tempt Providence, to reach out an arm or a leg is to risk a swim, to lean forward as Billy now did is almost certain disaster.
They who go down to the sea in the racing six-footers must sit still, or their sail will change to desolation while they hold on to an upturned wreck, and the occupants of every passing skiff and open boat guffaw in mockery. Nevertheless Bail Boy Billy wantonly and with vehemence kissed his crew. He performed still more greatly. Holding the tiller in his left hand, he transferred the mainsheet from his right hand to the prehensile toes of his left foot, reached for the girl, and pulled her to him. Marjory and the dinghy thrilled with emotion; each settled comfortably again; Billy stood on his course.
PERHAPS some who do not know the allurement of the open boat fleet have been misled into reading thus far in the belief that this is a love story. To any such 1 say, 'Pass on: this yarn is not for you.' You will not learn how the Bail Boy won the affection of this enchanting damsel. That had already been done. The event dates back from the time they broke the spinnaker spar in the 18-footer Aerial and fell into the water together; by this time they were old pals and next thing to 'engaged.' Billy is looking forward to a unique wedding. His plan is to be married on Clark Island on a Saturday afternoon after the 18 footers' race. Marjory and her people are to go to the island by steamer; all hands in the racing fleet are to attend in their sailing costumes — guernseys, shorts, and bare feet. Billy sees in his mind's eye the whole 32 boats tied in the lee of the island and 350 of his colleagues and rivals, dripping wet from the race, grinning their congratulations. Then he and his bride will leave for their honeymoon in a manner original and unprecedented. He will borrow an 18-footer — doubtless Lan Taylor will lend his old Federal or Quibree — and to the cheers of the multitude he, Billy the Bail Boy, and Marjory will sail away to a secluded week-end cottage in the upper readies of Middle Harbour. Billy has it all mapped out, but the time is not set.
IF Marjory tried to push Billy away it was only because she did not fancy a swim just then, not because she had any objection to Billy — far from it. The Bail Boy is regarded by his companion as the personification of everything manly. How could it be otherwise? Has she not seen him and his bail dish in action as the 18-foot fleet, speeds round the double triangle? What girl could fail to admire the principal member of a sailing crew, especially in these effeminate days when young men are led aside from hardy sports to such frivolities as cricket, football, hockey, long-distance running, cycling, and boxing? Billy had conceived a brilliant idea to get the girl to himself for a whole Sunday. In the absence of the owner, he had assumed temporary possession of a six-footer which was conveniently housed in the same shed as Mississippi. This morning, amid the banter of his comrades, Billy had rigged the tiny craft, and with Marjory had sailed out of Lavender Bay in triumph.
READER, have you ever been in a six-foot dinghy? Do you know of your personal experience what a delicate craft she is to handle? Doubtless you have been in an eighteen; probably you used to sail with the old 22-footers; I take it for granted you comprehend the alacrity with which it is necessary to move to preserve the balance. Maybe you have travelled in a 16ft skiff with no lee-cloth, when the only thing between you and a compulsory swim was your capacity to keep her balanced. It may even have been your pride and good fortune to know the joys of sailing a fourteen-footer, a twelve, a ten, or an eight — each a little more difficult to navigate than the next larger. But have you ever been in a six? Do you know the joyous thrill when first you plant your bare foot on the exact centre of the boat while the whole business shakes with fear like a jelly at the approach of a bad boy? Do you know that anxious moment when, having pushed out from the shelter of the shed, the breeze strikes you and Tom Thumb cants to leeward and takes in a few admonitory gallons of the harbour? I assume you have experienced or at least know of these things — else why waste time reading a tale like this? BAIL BOY' BILLY was rounding Milson's Point. He and Marjory settled snugly in the bottom of the boat; Billy shook out the main sheet, and the light westerly wafted Radio down the harbour. The vehicular ferry Kondooloo loomed ahead. Billy regarded her indifferently. When a steam vessel and a sailing vessel are proceeding in such directions as to involve risk of collision , the steam vessel shall keep out of the way of the sailing vessel.
Billy knows article 20 of the regulations for preventing collisions at sea even better than he knows his catechism and the Athanasian Creed. I suppose there were 45 motor-cars crowded on the Koondooloo, which is built to carry 42. Usually the Bail Boy has no compunction about holding up their passengers while his sailing boat passes, but to-day he could afford to be generous. Time was nothing; he waved the skipper of the big punt to keep on going and pulled the dinghy round the stern. Billy rolled one lazy eye round the horizon, saw that the fairway was tolerably clear, and centred his attention on his ship-mate. Chairs are not included in the equipment of a sailing dinghy. Marjory lay along the floor of the boat garbed in a Canadian costume, the water that had come over the side swirled in little eddies round her feet; her head by this time was nestling on the Bail Boy's knee. Billy was almost as happy as when he was wielding the bail dish in the midst of the 18-foot fleet. y A half-decked cruiser approached, heading up the g harbour. A vessel which is running free shall keep out of the way of a vessel which is close-hauled. Billy obeyed the rule punctiliously. The picnic party swept by, displaying much interest in the occupants of the six-footer.
The gentle westerly wafted Radio and company to the spot where Billy the Bail Boy had planned to spend the day. Not many know of this delightful nook: few land there. Landing is prohibited; the beach is part of the Quarantine grounds. This fact did not worry Billy. Germs, bacteria, and bacilli never troubled him, and he rightly calculated that the chance of being caught trespassing was remote. As for Marjory, she left it to Billy.
And now behold the Bail Boy luff up his little craft, pull out the dagger fin, jump over the side, and steady the boat for Marjory. Billy found it necessary to carry his girl and her Canadian costume ashore, for the water was fully knee-deep. The crew of Radio spent a very happy day. They swam, basked in the sun, lunched, swam again, and basked in the sun still further.
Yet there was one fly in the cream. By all the rules of the weather the light westerly breeze should have veered round to a nice north-easter by midday. The north-easter is our prevailing afternoon wind. It is the harbinger of happiness for all who spend their leisure afloat. It is the basis of every sailing event. When the yachts hold their annual all-day ocean race they go north to the Hawkesbury, instead of south to Port Hacking, simply to get the run home with the north-easter behind. The eighteens, with their turning points fixed at Clark Island. Taylor Bay, George's Head light, Sow and Pigs, Shark Island, and Rose Bay, take the course which gives them a thrash to start and a leading breeze to finish. Even so was it when the old twenty-twos used to race from Goat Island to Manly and back; even so is it with the skiffs, the fourteens, the tens, and the sixes.
So also with Billy. He had reckoned on an easy romp home with the jib and mainsheet loose, the fin up to the lugs, and nothing to do except look after the tiller and Marjory. But the westerly had shifted only as far as south-west — giving the six-footer a dead slog all the way. The commander of Radio watched it with care, and at length made the sad announcement that they must leave at 4 o'clock if they wanted to he back for tea.
BA1L BOY BILLY was not the only one who had miscalculated the wind. On Saturdays most of the boats on the Happy Harbour are racing, and difficulties are expected: but Sunday is the day for Pleasure sailing, the day when the racing fleet mostly stays in the sheds and half the boats afloat carry large cargoes of youth and girlhood pursuing the elusive butterfly of bliss. All such craft were up against the task of heading back in face of an adverse breeze. If it is true that it is the homeward run during which sentimentality and youthful ecstasy flow freest, many young hearts besides those of Bail Boy Billy and Marjory must have felt disappointed. Chagrin engenders sourness of disposition and recklessness of behaviour, as Billy and Marjory now discovered. A vessel winch is close-hauled on the port tack shall keep out of the way of a vessel which is close-hauled on the starboard tack. In spite of this wholesome regulation, every time the diminutive Radio and another boat met on opposing tacks Billy was forced to go about or risk a collision. When he was on the port tack he gave way without hesitation, but Billy's wrath rose high as time after time some hulking cruiser or half-decker, laden with girls who could not compare with Marjory, sailed on her wrong tack up to Radio, and a be-sandshoed loon motioned Billy out of the way. Billy observed with grief and pain that the law of the harbour had changed. Small boats had to give way to medium-sized boats, which in turn had to keep clear of those still larger. A six-footer is the smallest vessel that floats anywhere in the world. It is the grand masterpiece of naval architecture, but to-day Billy andMarjory were outclassed. Billy the Bail Boy is not of the type to take affronts lying down. Twice he was forced about.
The next to come at him was a rater, in which his trained eye discerned three gaudily-attired girls and three smart flannelled young men, with not a bare foot in the crowd. The females wore high-heeled shoes: two of the men had boots on, and one was in shoes. How the Bail Boy detests folk who trample booted on the planks of sailing craft! Billy would no more think of entering a boat without first removing his footgear than a Moslem of entering a mosque.
The rater came on, and a languid youth at the tiller took his attention from his party to motion Billy off the harbour. The Bail Boy fixed on him a baleful glare, pointed Radio into the eye of the wind, and rushed at the rater like a swordfish at a whale. A puff of the breeze caught the dinghy; Billy motioned his companion to hang out a little further: the high-heeled females screeched — even Marjory held her breath — Radio's bumpkin stabbed at the hull of the rater. But before the blow struck home Billy jammed bard on the tiller and adroitly pulled round his charge. As the mainsail flapped about he emptied his trusty bail-dish over the aquatic road hogs. 'Good enough for them, Billy — the horrid creatures,' observed Marjory, to which the Bail Hand replied: 'No more rules of the road for me; all the rules I'll want, alter this will depend on the size of my boat.'
It is a long, hard thrash for a six from the Quarantine Station to Lavender Bay in a south-wester. The fun had gone out of the trip by the time Billy and Marjory reached their destination. They had been put about so often by boats on the wrong tack that the Bail Boy — I grieve to mention it — was sullen with wrath. He had bottled up so many violent expressions out of regard for the feelings of his crew that he had at length been reduced to speechlessness. Marjory's vivacity likewise had waned ; the cold of the spray and the edge of the adverse breeze made her snuggle as close to Billy as the shape of a six-footer permits, and wait for the voyage to end. For the last time they were thrown out of their course — by a ferry steamer on this occasion — and now Radio pointed on the port tack for the boatshed. Lo, towards them came sailing a model yacht. Clean and white her sails, this 18inch midget, inclined to the breeze and danced over the waves like a fairy barque. Fifty yards behind in a canoe paddled Bob Budnick, the master who had set her on her course. Have you ever heard the shopwalker bully the head of the ribbons and lace department, and heard the latter in turn snap the first sales? Have you noticed how a fox-terrier, escaping from the onslaught of a greyhound or Airedale wreaks vengeance on the first Pomeranian he meets? Why is it that the small boy, cracking hardy from the dry shaves or muscle-grinders of a youth of larger mould immediately assails the neat little chap whose mother has made him so pretty? These be fundamental impulses rooted deep in the nature of animals and humans. Bail Boy Billy, the young animal, is very human. Here at last was something smaller than his own boat. Billy brightened while he hauled the main sheet tighter and gripped the tiller firmer. In his soul stirred a fierce passion to wipe out the heaped-up tyrannies of the day. Did I say the toy boat, was on the starboard tack? She was, whereas Billy had the tiller of Radio in his right hand. His feet were firmly braced; the model sped straight down the bay. Billy's aim was perfect: he bore down on his victim as a shark on a salmon.
The gentle Marjory discerned Billy s purpose and thrilled sympathetically. Judge her not adversely, or I will know that you have not had the experience which Radio's crew had been through. From the punt came the voice of Bob Budnick : 'Look where you're going, Billy.' '1 know where I'm going. Watch me,' rapped out the Bail Hand. 'Can't you see the model?' yelled the skipper of Mississippi. 'Yes; but 1 don't like the cut of her. I'm going to remodel her.' The joy of the moment made Billy facetious. Marjory smiled happily. She laid her hand on the helmsman's wrist. 'Good on you, Billy.'
ACROSS the top of the water raced one of the sudden puffs of wind which the sailing fraternity call 'black 'uns.' Billy braced his little craft to meet it: the six-footer sprang. A glad symphony, blended of the crushing of splintered wood and the tearing of sails, fell melodiously on the ears of Bail Boy Billy. Immoderate laughter broke from Bob, he shook with mirth : his peals of merriment were echoed from the boatshed, where the whole of Mississippi's crew was lined up watching the sport. 'Good shot, Billy,' shouted Algy May, and the crowd burst into renewed merriment. The humour of the situation was not apparent to the Bail Hand. Truth to tell, he was a little ashamed of his exploit. He ran Radio alongside the retaining wall and helped Marjory to land.
Bob Budnick gathered up the wreckage and rowed ashore. His laughter had subsided to a chuckle. The crew of Mississippi crowded round; Bob offered the salvage to Billy. 'There's not. much left of her,' he remarked, 'but you might as well have what there is.' '1 don't want it; give it to the owner, replied the Bail Boy. Mississippi's crew laughed in chorus. 'Well, I'm offering her to you,' Bob made answer. The Mississippians laughed as if to burst. 'She's not mine; my model was white.' Billy was getting annoyed. His comrades roared again. She was white, but now she's green,' Bob stated cheerfully. 'I painted her for you this morning. I was just giving her a trial spin.' Billy scowled dourly; the hard answer that rounds up wrath was on the tip of his tongue. Then Marjory's soprano laughter broke into the ribaldry. 'Never mind. Billy,' she said, 'I'll help you make a new one.’
A fleet of 6-footers before a race, early 1900's. Sydney Flying Squadron collection.
The first Bail Boy Billy story from the Sydney Mail, Wednesday 4 March 1925, p12, found on TROVE NLA
Bail Boy Billy's Lucky Number
A Veracious Story of the Racing Eighteen- Footers
By C. C. Faulkner
I ALWAYS say 13 is our lucky number,' remarked Bail Boy Billy. That remarkable youth had never before made such an observation in my hearing. This was the first time, indeed, that I had noticed in him any weakness for anything savouring of omens. His conversation chiefly concerned the respective merits of the rival eighteen-footers, his talk was mainly in terms of mainsails and jibs, spinnakers, ballooners, and ringtails, with occasional reference to topsails, watersails. and raffees, the whole seasoned with explanatory remarks on the importance of the bailing department. I told him I did not know he was superstitious. The Bail Boy looked me over with tolerant disdain. He tied two knots in a piece of cord before he condescended to elaborate his statement. 'I suppose you don't know what this is for?' he said. I replied that I had no idea. ‘Well,’ the Bail Hand rejoined, ' this string is to tie in Mississippi's bail dish.' 'It could as easily be used to tie up a plum pudding,' I retorted. 'You don't understand,' Billy said. 'I told you 13 was Mississippi's lucky number, and this proves it.' The Bail Boy proceeded to tell me that the two knots he had tied divided the string into three parts of 13 inches each — the whole cord being 39 inches in length. Of course, I laughed him to scorn, but Billy waved aside my ridicule and asserted that I was displaying my ignorance of bailing and bail dishes and bail boys. He informed me that the most important factor in the equipment of a racing eighteen-footer — bar, of course, the bail dish — was the string that ties in the dish, and that the string must be 39 inches long, divided by two knots into three sections of 13 inches each. Otherwise the boat would have no chance. ' But' — I thought my question would confound him — ' but surely, Billy, you wouldn't have the same length of string on big beamy boats like Life-Saver, Keriki, and Pastime as on narrow little craft like Loris, Desdemona, and Caledonia?' Whereat he laughed derisively again and said he was talking about real open boats — not tramps like Kerry and Pastime or imitation skiffs like Dezzy and Loris. That is always the way with the Bail Boy. Though there are 29 boats in the 18ft fleet of Sydney Harbour, Billy thinks Mississippi is the only one that is any good. I got him back to his contention: this lucky number 13 business. We call them eighteen-footers,' Billy explained, 'but you must remember that the bows are decked in for about 3ft and the gunwale on each side for a foot. Taking off 5ft, then you have 13ft — our lucky number, as I told you.' Curious logic, it seemed, and I offered to bet Billy two to one that, the aforesaid measurements on Scot or Wallami — the flrst boats I thought of — would differ from those of Arline, Awaya, or H. C. Press by at least 18 inches. Billy only looked superior. He is a quaint and original thinker; therefore I waited for him to develop his thesis. 'Here's another thing,' Billy proceeded. 'Our mast is exactly 13ft, high, to the crosstrees ? ' 'Our mast, you young lunatic 13' — I must have been a little irritated. 'Which mast are you talking about? Do you mean our big mast — the one we carry in a light breeze? Or are you animadverting on our second mast — the one for a moderate blow? You're ten or twelve feet out if you have them in your idiotic mind. Or do you in your absurd imagination see our third mast — the little one we use in a howling southerly or tearing westerly ?' To which the Bail Boy retorted dogmatically: 'I said our mast was 13ft high to the crosstrees.' And I asked him with rage:
'Did you measure from the bottom of the boat, or did you start from the thwarts? Did you put your rule on the waterline? Did a surveyor hook his chain in the gunwale? From, where did your calculation originate?' 'I'm telling you that 13 is our lucky number,' Billy informed me doggedly, 'and our mast is 13ft to the crosstrees.' 'What height is it to the top?' I inquired. Ignoring the cynicism, Billy continued: ''Our bumpkin is 13ft long.' 'Which bumpkin?' I roared. 'The big one, the second, or the little one?' 'I'm showing you that 13 is Mississippi's lucky number, if only you would let me,' Billy said. 'And I can tell you,' I rejoined, 'that not one of our bumpkins is 13ft long; the little one has an overhang of 13ft, and that's all you can say for it ? ' 'Exactly what I am saying,' and there was triumph in the Bail Boy's tones. Billy gloated over my discomfiture. 'Our ringtail spar is 13ft — though, of course, you know nothing about ringtails,' he next remarked.
Bail Boy Billy's Lucky Number
A Veracious Story of the Racing Eighteen- Footers
By C. C. Faulkner
I ALWAYS say 13 is our lucky number,' remarked Bail Boy Billy. That remarkable youth had never before made such an observation in my hearing. This was the first time, indeed, that I had noticed in him any weakness for anything savouring of omens. His conversation chiefly concerned the respective merits of the rival eighteen-footers, his talk was mainly in terms of mainsails and jibs, spinnakers, ballooners, and ringtails, with occasional reference to topsails, watersails. and raffees, the whole seasoned with explanatory remarks on the importance of the bailing department. I told him I did not know he was superstitious. The Bail Boy looked me over with tolerant disdain. He tied two knots in a piece of cord before he condescended to elaborate his statement. 'I suppose you don't know what this is for?' he said. I replied that I had no idea. ‘Well,’ the Bail Hand rejoined, ' this string is to tie in Mississippi's bail dish.' 'It could as easily be used to tie up a plum pudding,' I retorted. 'You don't understand,' Billy said. 'I told you 13 was Mississippi's lucky number, and this proves it.' The Bail Boy proceeded to tell me that the two knots he had tied divided the string into three parts of 13 inches each — the whole cord being 39 inches in length. Of course, I laughed him to scorn, but Billy waved aside my ridicule and asserted that I was displaying my ignorance of bailing and bail dishes and bail boys. He informed me that the most important factor in the equipment of a racing eighteen-footer — bar, of course, the bail dish — was the string that ties in the dish, and that the string must be 39 inches long, divided by two knots into three sections of 13 inches each. Otherwise the boat would have no chance. ' But' — I thought my question would confound him — ' but surely, Billy, you wouldn't have the same length of string on big beamy boats like Life-Saver, Keriki, and Pastime as on narrow little craft like Loris, Desdemona, and Caledonia?' Whereat he laughed derisively again and said he was talking about real open boats — not tramps like Kerry and Pastime or imitation skiffs like Dezzy and Loris. That is always the way with the Bail Boy. Though there are 29 boats in the 18ft fleet of Sydney Harbour, Billy thinks Mississippi is the only one that is any good. I got him back to his contention: this lucky number 13 business. We call them eighteen-footers,' Billy explained, 'but you must remember that the bows are decked in for about 3ft and the gunwale on each side for a foot. Taking off 5ft, then you have 13ft — our lucky number, as I told you.' Curious logic, it seemed, and I offered to bet Billy two to one that, the aforesaid measurements on Scot or Wallami — the flrst boats I thought of — would differ from those of Arline, Awaya, or H. C. Press by at least 18 inches. Billy only looked superior. He is a quaint and original thinker; therefore I waited for him to develop his thesis. 'Here's another thing,' Billy proceeded. 'Our mast is exactly 13ft, high, to the crosstrees ? ' 'Our mast, you young lunatic 13' — I must have been a little irritated. 'Which mast are you talking about? Do you mean our big mast — the one we carry in a light breeze? Or are you animadverting on our second mast — the one for a moderate blow? You're ten or twelve feet out if you have them in your idiotic mind. Or do you in your absurd imagination see our third mast — the little one we use in a howling southerly or tearing westerly ?' To which the Bail Boy retorted dogmatically: 'I said our mast was 13ft high to the crosstrees.' And I asked him with rage:
'Did you measure from the bottom of the boat, or did you start from the thwarts? Did you put your rule on the waterline? Did a surveyor hook his chain in the gunwale? From, where did your calculation originate?' 'I'm telling you that 13 is our lucky number,' Billy informed me doggedly, 'and our mast is 13ft to the crosstrees.' 'What height is it to the top?' I inquired. Ignoring the cynicism, Billy continued: ''Our bumpkin is 13ft long.' 'Which bumpkin?' I roared. 'The big one, the second, or the little one?' 'I'm showing you that 13 is Mississippi's lucky number, if only you would let me,' Billy said. 'And I can tell you,' I rejoined, 'that not one of our bumpkins is 13ft long; the little one has an overhang of 13ft, and that's all you can say for it ? ' 'Exactly what I am saying,' and there was triumph in the Bail Boy's tones. Billy gloated over my discomfiture. 'Our ringtail spar is 13ft — though, of course, you know nothing about ringtails,' he next remarked.
The mighty Mississippi, a real boat. The incidents in this story actually happened, but the character of Billy and his theories have probably been made up or at least exaggerated. The ringtail displayed above does look like its upper spar is 15' and the lower 13', which would have made it one of the biggest in the fleet. This photo is from a postcard in my collection.
NOW, if there is one thing about a racing boat upon which I am better informed than all others, it is the subject of the ringtail, that astonishing slice of canvas which forms an enlargement of the mainsail. When the fleet rounds Shark Island in a. straight northeaster and heads for the finishing point off Clark Island, then—as you well know, discerning reader— is the time to see the ringtails go up. Can we not hear you enthusiasts who watch from the steamers or crowd the southeastern end of Shark Island speak glad words of delight as we haul on the extras and perchance capsize our boats for your entertainment? Usually the ringtail is the last extra set. First comes the ballooner, then the spinnaker, either from the masthead or the top of the topsail. Then if the mast looks as if it can carry a little more without being uprooted the ringtail is hauled on to the end of the boom and the gaff. Some of the Queensland boats, I have noticed, put on the ringtail before the spinnaker. Also, I remember that when Sydney won a race recently she carried a ringtail nearly all the afternoon, and never used a spinnaker at all. In one or two of our craft — notably Britannia, God bless her! — the ringtail and the spinnaker go up together. And now the Bail Boy informed me that I knew nothing of the ringtail — me, to whom the ringtail is a special delight — me, who regard the ringtail as the crowning glory of an eighteen-footer in a hurry — me, who have carried a ringtail on a ten-footer before Billy the Bail Boy first entered a racing boat, which was at the age of six months. So I set out to crush the conceited puppy. 'Which ringtail spar are you thinking about, you intolerable young crustacean? Do you suppose that I am ignorant of the fact that the dimensions of the upper and lower spar vary in respect of protractedness ? Fifteen feet is the length of the upper spar ? ' 'And 13ft of the lower.' Billy was quite right, and I knew it. 'Take it any way you like, you'll find that our number is 13,' Billy asserted. 'I need not tell you, of course, that my new bail dish is exactly 13 inches long.' As I made no reply Billy resumed : 'Our topsail is 13ft overall ; our spinnaker spar is 13ft long ? ' 'We have four spinnaker spars, you young dog,' I interrupted, 'and they're all different lengths. I know two are 17ft each.' 'Well, there are four spars; four from 17 — isn't that 13?' I let him have it. 'What about the depth of the fin?' — I thought I had caught Billy this time. ‘It’s exactly 6ft 6 inches— just half of 13,' he retorted. 'But it's only 12 inches on the foot, — I measured it' I shouted at him. ' 'All the same, it's 39 inches along the top, just three limes 13,' he rejoined. I capitulated. 'Now, listen,' he proceeded, 'and I'll prove the whole thing: S.B. — S.B. stands for sailing boat — S.B. Mississippi, 13 letters; Robert Budnick, the man who owns her, 13 letters ; Thomas Budnick, his brother, who works the main sheet, 13 letters ? ' 'What about Fred Manning, who's sailing her while Bob Budnick is away?' I demanded. 'What about Algy May, the jib hand, Alf Ewington, the for'ard hand, Arthur and Roy Ingram, Jack Ellis, who comes for ballast, what about myself?' 'You don't count.' Thus Billy disposed of me. 'What about yourself, Bail Boy Billy? Perhaps you don't count, either?' 'Say Bail Hand Billy' and you'll find there are just 13 letters in it.' 'The arrogant little bounder.' I thought, but the Bail Boy, cheerfully unaware of his egotism, calmly reeled off all the measurements of the boat which came anywhere near the number 13, whether in feet, yards, or inches, making no mention of such facts as that the Mississippi is actually 18ft long, 8ft 3in in the beam, and 2ft 5in deep; that the big sail is 27ft on the boom, 15ft on the hoist, and 16ft on the gaff, and that the only 13 in all the measurements of the sails is the 13’ hoist of the second. At last I slopped him and asked what it was all about. Then he said he was going to tell me how Mississippi's lucky number helped her to win her flrst race this season. 'First we beat the starter's flag by 13 seconds,' he began. 'I'm quite sure that's a lie,' I challenged Billy. 'Well, we got a good start, anyway,' he amended. 'On the first, stretch to Bradley's Head we crossed 13 yachts, 13 skiffs, 13 motor-launches, 13 sailing boats, and 13 ferry steamers— and made every one give way to us ? ' 'Now you are beginning to tell the truth,' I observed. 'We saw 13 sharks chasing 13 porpoises,' Billy proceeded. 'That's nothing unusual,' said I. 'We were making fairly long lacks into the nor'easter, and every 13 minutes by the Post Office clock we would go about.' ‘That is the standard practice,' I remarked. 'Gradually we caught all the boats ahead of us, and 13 minutes after the start we were in the lead.' Billy's description was very surprising. I decided to let him finish without further interruption — if I could restrain myself — and here, as near as I can remember is the story.
A HARD north-easterly breeze was blowing — the kind which makes Mississippi really formidable. The stiffer the breeze the better she likes it. Every boat in the racing fleet has its peculiarities; some have an advantage in a light wind, and others in a moderate breeze. Mississippi, like Swastika, Mavis, Furious, Onda, and Desdemona, is at her best when a gale is raging, when a southerly busier screeches by, when a black nor'-easter happens along or a howling westerly shakes the Happy Harbour. As they came up to the starter's boat off Clark Island— I made the young scoundrel retract his calumny that Fred Manning crossed the line early — Billy cursed all hands in a preliminary fashion by way of encouraging them to sail a good boat. He ordered the whole crew up on the gunwale, told them ho would 'crack' the first man who talked or did not hang out to his limit, admonished Tom Budnick not to ease the mainsheet for an instant, handed some instructions to the jib hand on the subject of flapping, and made a few observations to the skipper as to the course he was to take. Meanwhile he plied the bail dish — whether at the rate of 13 strokes to the minute he did not mention. The tide was at the flood. Fred stood in close to the western shore, battling leg for leg with the. long-markers. Eclipse and Florrie carried away, and in Chowder Bay Mississippi crossed the last of the fleet— Eileen and Endeavour — and the Bail Boy seized the opportunity lo make some offensive remarks to the crews of these two boats as the blue and gold Maltese cross scraped past the ends of their bumpkins. Now Billy exhorted his comrades afresh, and Mississippi with a clear course ahead and a breeze made to order set out to lead the fleet round the double triangle. 'She never went better,' declared Bail Boy Billy. 'On the thrash to George's Head light she pointed up into the wind closer than a yacht. I had the crew lined so straight, on the gunwale that I could have put a skewer through the lot of them. Every time we went about they all kept in a row like ninepins, and stepped across, left-right, left-right, and into position, exactly like soldiers. And don't forget that I was the drill sergeant. 'I told the skipper what course to steer' — (exactly what Billy always does, though Fred Manning never takes the slightest notice of him) — 'and when we got round the light I trimmed them all aft and told them how to set the spinnaker.’ Billy described in great detail how he (he, whose sole function in the boat is to toss out the superfluous liquid) managed the captain and crew and everything so well that after going once round the course Mississippi had the enormous dead of 13 minutes at Clark Island. But from the moment she rounded this mark, he said, she seemed ailing. All the life went out of the boat. She appeared to drag through the water like a corpse on the grappling irons of the Water Police. 'Very strange,' I commented. 'And what: was the cause?' 'That's what I'm coming to,' the Bail Boy said, and went on with his narrative. It is the general practice for rowing boats and similar small craft to keep out of the way of the eighteen-footers — Billy is an offensive young humbug; he taIks to us old sailors as if we were novices — but, when Mississippi approached the rounding mark a skiff was kellicked fair in her track. In it half-a-dozen men were fishing. The terms in which the racing crew requested the anglers to take their worthless hulk off the harbour were vehement and expressive. Billy mentioned a few of the phrases employed. Nevertheless the skiff remained until Mississippi was about to pass. At that moment her occupants suddenly roused themselves and started to row — in the wrong direction. The point of Mississippi's bumpkin caught under the fishermen's mooring line, and in a moment the two boats were tied in a knot. Reader, you who are familiar with the ways of the racing fleet, I need not explain to you the drastic manner in which the men of Mississippi dealt with those fisher louts. While Bail Boy Billy knocked holes in the bottom of their boat with a big pair of footprints Well Hand Willy and the rest cut and tore their gear to shreds and threw the six of them into the ocean. This accomplished, Mississippi resumed her voyage. But now the other boats were nearly on top of her, and a strange sluggishness permeated her from the horserail to the end of the bumpkin, from the foot of the fin to the point of the peak. In vain Billy lined up the crew; fruitlessly he blackguarded the skipper, all to no purpose he tried to tighten the main sheet; with no avail he yelled at the for'ard hands not to let the jib flap. Mississippi was in a dull lethargy. Wearily she dragged her desolate carcase to Taylor Bay, while Avalon, Eileen, Loris, Crescent, and Advance romped joyously by. Keriki, loaded like a slave dhow, lumbered past, and a twinkle of merriment showed on the face of Chris Webb as he sailed H. C. Press up under the lee of Mississippi and threw round the buoy.
For the hundredth lime. Billy's glittering eye ran over all the tackle, he hung over the stern and examined the rudder, he climbed out on the bumpkin and down on to the protector to see if anything had fouled her. Not a thing could he find. At his instigation they hoisted the topsail, but it made no difference. Last and at last Mississippi reached the rounding mark in Taylor Bay — exactly 13 minutes behind the leading boat and 13 seconds behind the second boat. A dark gloom pervaded the crew; even Billy's enthusiasm was damp, though the breeze had freshened, a half-gale was blowing — it was Mississippi's ideal day. 'Give her a go, anyhow!' Fred Manning roused the crew from their apathy. 'Get that ballooner on; up with the fin.' To the top of the topsail they hauled a mighty balloon jib that gleamed in the sunlight like a shining cloud of glory. I do not recall the measurements of that wondrous sail, except that it is just 13 yards on the foot. It casts a shadow over the harbour; three men have to hang on to the sheet. 'It's a wonder the mast didn't break,' I remarked. 'It would have carried clean away,' said the Bail Boy, 'except for one thing. You know how the fin starts to hum and then to moan, and then to whistle, when the wind is over the quarter?'. ' I said I knew the sound perfectly; it was music to my ears; no melody pleased me better. Compared with it a jazz band induced melancholy. 'Well, this time it only made a sort of a growling noise. I knew what was wrong; something had fouled the fin. I hopped over the side, dived, and found a pair of trousers jammed between the fin and the fin box. They were a pair I had pulled off one of the gang who stopped us at Clark Island. It was these that had been holding us back.' Bail Boy Billy's reminiscences are always surprising, but I was quite unprepared to hear that Mississippi picked up 13 minutes on the last two legs of the short. triangle —a distance of about three miles.- But such, Billy assured me, was the case. From the moment he pulled the trousers free of the fin the boat — thus he carried on the story — simply hydroplaned over the crests of the waves. The big topsail-head ballooner strained tight like a Frankfurt sausage, the bows lifted and lifted till only the fin, the rudder, and a foot or two of the keel were in the water. The rudder split the green sea and threw up a wake a foot higher than the horserail. Only her speed saved Mississippi from being overwhelmed from behind. She flew past Press, she blanketed Awaya, she was the cause of Australia's ballooner carrying away; she swamped N.S.W., she bounded right over the top of two six-footers and a ten. 'Steady, Billy; ease up the mainsheet a bit,' I interposed. She jibed so suddenly, at Shark Island that Chook Fraser, who was jibing at the same time, capsized Hall Mark in the ditch. 'Good Lord — the Botany Bay boat!' Billy informed me that I was quite correct. He added that Hall Mark fell on top of Scot, who escaped by sheer good luck. 'That was on Anniversary Day, at the regatta,' I interrupted. Billy look no notice of my remark, and went on. He had a wealth of detail about the last mile of the race, but I cut him short. The point of it was that between the two islands Mississippi in a black north-easter carried twice the canvas that had ever been seen on an eighteen-footer, overtook 13 of her compeers, and won the race by 13 seconds. At last the Bail Boy ceased to talk, and I had a word. 'Billy,' I rebuked him sternly, 'I have listened with patience to your chronicle; it bears all the outward and visible evidences of verisimilitude and literal exactness. I could find it in my heart to believe you, except for one thing you have forgotten.' 'What was that?' he inquired. 'Only that I was in the boat with you.' 'I don't care if you were,' he said doggedly. 'The main points about the yarn are right. Anyway, I only told it to prove that 13 is our lucky number.' 'I'm waiting for the proof,' I replied. 'And here it is — it was on the thirteenth of the month, and our number on the programme was 13.*' 'If 13 is our lucky number, how comes it, Bail Boy Billy,' I demanded, 'that Mississippi arrived' at Clark Island that day with 13 hands on board, and before we started in the race we put four ashore to lighten her?' Billy looked sourly at me, picked up his bail dish, and turned away. 'You always were the nark of the crew,' he growled. * Dec. 13, 1924. These two statements of the Bail Boy's I can vouch for. The rest I leave to the 3000 enthusiasts who either sailed with us or watched the race. — C.C.F,
A HARD north-easterly breeze was blowing — the kind which makes Mississippi really formidable. The stiffer the breeze the better she likes it. Every boat in the racing fleet has its peculiarities; some have an advantage in a light wind, and others in a moderate breeze. Mississippi, like Swastika, Mavis, Furious, Onda, and Desdemona, is at her best when a gale is raging, when a southerly busier screeches by, when a black nor'-easter happens along or a howling westerly shakes the Happy Harbour. As they came up to the starter's boat off Clark Island— I made the young scoundrel retract his calumny that Fred Manning crossed the line early — Billy cursed all hands in a preliminary fashion by way of encouraging them to sail a good boat. He ordered the whole crew up on the gunwale, told them ho would 'crack' the first man who talked or did not hang out to his limit, admonished Tom Budnick not to ease the mainsheet for an instant, handed some instructions to the jib hand on the subject of flapping, and made a few observations to the skipper as to the course he was to take. Meanwhile he plied the bail dish — whether at the rate of 13 strokes to the minute he did not mention. The tide was at the flood. Fred stood in close to the western shore, battling leg for leg with the. long-markers. Eclipse and Florrie carried away, and in Chowder Bay Mississippi crossed the last of the fleet— Eileen and Endeavour — and the Bail Boy seized the opportunity lo make some offensive remarks to the crews of these two boats as the blue and gold Maltese cross scraped past the ends of their bumpkins. Now Billy exhorted his comrades afresh, and Mississippi with a clear course ahead and a breeze made to order set out to lead the fleet round the double triangle. 'She never went better,' declared Bail Boy Billy. 'On the thrash to George's Head light she pointed up into the wind closer than a yacht. I had the crew lined so straight, on the gunwale that I could have put a skewer through the lot of them. Every time we went about they all kept in a row like ninepins, and stepped across, left-right, left-right, and into position, exactly like soldiers. And don't forget that I was the drill sergeant. 'I told the skipper what course to steer' — (exactly what Billy always does, though Fred Manning never takes the slightest notice of him) — 'and when we got round the light I trimmed them all aft and told them how to set the spinnaker.’ Billy described in great detail how he (he, whose sole function in the boat is to toss out the superfluous liquid) managed the captain and crew and everything so well that after going once round the course Mississippi had the enormous dead of 13 minutes at Clark Island. But from the moment she rounded this mark, he said, she seemed ailing. All the life went out of the boat. She appeared to drag through the water like a corpse on the grappling irons of the Water Police. 'Very strange,' I commented. 'And what: was the cause?' 'That's what I'm coming to,' the Bail Boy said, and went on with his narrative. It is the general practice for rowing boats and similar small craft to keep out of the way of the eighteen-footers — Billy is an offensive young humbug; he taIks to us old sailors as if we were novices — but, when Mississippi approached the rounding mark a skiff was kellicked fair in her track. In it half-a-dozen men were fishing. The terms in which the racing crew requested the anglers to take their worthless hulk off the harbour were vehement and expressive. Billy mentioned a few of the phrases employed. Nevertheless the skiff remained until Mississippi was about to pass. At that moment her occupants suddenly roused themselves and started to row — in the wrong direction. The point of Mississippi's bumpkin caught under the fishermen's mooring line, and in a moment the two boats were tied in a knot. Reader, you who are familiar with the ways of the racing fleet, I need not explain to you the drastic manner in which the men of Mississippi dealt with those fisher louts. While Bail Boy Billy knocked holes in the bottom of their boat with a big pair of footprints Well Hand Willy and the rest cut and tore their gear to shreds and threw the six of them into the ocean. This accomplished, Mississippi resumed her voyage. But now the other boats were nearly on top of her, and a strange sluggishness permeated her from the horserail to the end of the bumpkin, from the foot of the fin to the point of the peak. In vain Billy lined up the crew; fruitlessly he blackguarded the skipper, all to no purpose he tried to tighten the main sheet; with no avail he yelled at the for'ard hands not to let the jib flap. Mississippi was in a dull lethargy. Wearily she dragged her desolate carcase to Taylor Bay, while Avalon, Eileen, Loris, Crescent, and Advance romped joyously by. Keriki, loaded like a slave dhow, lumbered past, and a twinkle of merriment showed on the face of Chris Webb as he sailed H. C. Press up under the lee of Mississippi and threw round the buoy.
For the hundredth lime. Billy's glittering eye ran over all the tackle, he hung over the stern and examined the rudder, he climbed out on the bumpkin and down on to the protector to see if anything had fouled her. Not a thing could he find. At his instigation they hoisted the topsail, but it made no difference. Last and at last Mississippi reached the rounding mark in Taylor Bay — exactly 13 minutes behind the leading boat and 13 seconds behind the second boat. A dark gloom pervaded the crew; even Billy's enthusiasm was damp, though the breeze had freshened, a half-gale was blowing — it was Mississippi's ideal day. 'Give her a go, anyhow!' Fred Manning roused the crew from their apathy. 'Get that ballooner on; up with the fin.' To the top of the topsail they hauled a mighty balloon jib that gleamed in the sunlight like a shining cloud of glory. I do not recall the measurements of that wondrous sail, except that it is just 13 yards on the foot. It casts a shadow over the harbour; three men have to hang on to the sheet. 'It's a wonder the mast didn't break,' I remarked. 'It would have carried clean away,' said the Bail Boy, 'except for one thing. You know how the fin starts to hum and then to moan, and then to whistle, when the wind is over the quarter?'. ' I said I knew the sound perfectly; it was music to my ears; no melody pleased me better. Compared with it a jazz band induced melancholy. 'Well, this time it only made a sort of a growling noise. I knew what was wrong; something had fouled the fin. I hopped over the side, dived, and found a pair of trousers jammed between the fin and the fin box. They were a pair I had pulled off one of the gang who stopped us at Clark Island. It was these that had been holding us back.' Bail Boy Billy's reminiscences are always surprising, but I was quite unprepared to hear that Mississippi picked up 13 minutes on the last two legs of the short. triangle —a distance of about three miles.- But such, Billy assured me, was the case. From the moment he pulled the trousers free of the fin the boat — thus he carried on the story — simply hydroplaned over the crests of the waves. The big topsail-head ballooner strained tight like a Frankfurt sausage, the bows lifted and lifted till only the fin, the rudder, and a foot or two of the keel were in the water. The rudder split the green sea and threw up a wake a foot higher than the horserail. Only her speed saved Mississippi from being overwhelmed from behind. She flew past Press, she blanketed Awaya, she was the cause of Australia's ballooner carrying away; she swamped N.S.W., she bounded right over the top of two six-footers and a ten. 'Steady, Billy; ease up the mainsheet a bit,' I interposed. She jibed so suddenly, at Shark Island that Chook Fraser, who was jibing at the same time, capsized Hall Mark in the ditch. 'Good Lord — the Botany Bay boat!' Billy informed me that I was quite correct. He added that Hall Mark fell on top of Scot, who escaped by sheer good luck. 'That was on Anniversary Day, at the regatta,' I interrupted. Billy look no notice of my remark, and went on. He had a wealth of detail about the last mile of the race, but I cut him short. The point of it was that between the two islands Mississippi in a black north-easter carried twice the canvas that had ever been seen on an eighteen-footer, overtook 13 of her compeers, and won the race by 13 seconds. At last the Bail Boy ceased to talk, and I had a word. 'Billy,' I rebuked him sternly, 'I have listened with patience to your chronicle; it bears all the outward and visible evidences of verisimilitude and literal exactness. I could find it in my heart to believe you, except for one thing you have forgotten.' 'What was that?' he inquired. 'Only that I was in the boat with you.' 'I don't care if you were,' he said doggedly. 'The main points about the yarn are right. Anyway, I only told it to prove that 13 is our lucky number.' 'I'm waiting for the proof,' I replied. 'And here it is — it was on the thirteenth of the month, and our number on the programme was 13.*' 'If 13 is our lucky number, how comes it, Bail Boy Billy,' I demanded, 'that Mississippi arrived' at Clark Island that day with 13 hands on board, and before we started in the race we put four ashore to lighten her?' Billy looked sourly at me, picked up his bail dish, and turned away. 'You always were the nark of the crew,' he growled. * Dec. 13, 1924. These two statements of the Bail Boy's I can vouch for. The rest I leave to the 3000 enthusiasts who either sailed with us or watched the race. — C.C.F,