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Landlord Oke gave a flourish with his chalk and wrote, Sally dictating,–

“‘I, Sarah Hancock–do hereby challenge all the men in Saltash Borough–that me and five other females of the said Borough–will row any six of them any distance from one to six statute miles–and will beat their heads off–pulling either single oars or double paddles or in ran-dam–the stakes to be six pound a side. And I do further promise, if beaten, to discharge all scores below.’

“Now the date, please–and hand me the chalk.”

She reached up and signed her name bold and free, being a fair scholar. “And now, my little fellow,” says she, turning to her husband, “put down that pipe and come’st along home. The man’s at the top of the tree, is he? You’ll wish you were, if I catch you at any more tricks!”

Well, at first the mankind at the “Fish and Anchor” allowed that Sal couldn’t be in earnest; this challenge of hers was all braggadoshy; and one or two went so far as to say ‘twould serve her right if she was taken at her word. In fact, no one treated it seriously until four days later, at high-water, when the folks that happened to be idling ‘pon the Quay heard a splash off Runnell’s boat-building yard, and, behold! off Runnell’s slip there floated a six-oared gig, bright as a pin with fresh paint. ‘Twas an old condemned gig, that had lain in his shed ever since he bought it for a song off the Indefatigable man-o’-war, though now she looked almost too smart to be the same boat. Sally had paid him to put in a couple of new strakes and plane out a brand-new set of oars in place of the old ashen ones, and had painted a new name beneath the old one on the sternboard, so that now she was the Indefatigable Woman for all the world to see. And that very evening Sally and five of her mates paddled her past the Quay on a trial spin, under the eyes of the whole town.

There was a deal of laughing up at the “Fish and Anchor” that night, the most of the customers still treating the affair as a joke. But Landlord Oke took a more serious view.

“‘Tis all very well for you fellows to grin,” says he, “but I’ve been trying to make up in my mind the crew that’s going to beat these females, and, by George! I don’t find it so easy. There’s the boat, too.”

“French-built, and leaks like a five-barred gate,” said somebody. “The Admiralty condemned her five year’ ago.”

“A leak can be patched, and the Admiralty’s condemning goes for nothing in a case like this. I tell you that boat has handsome lines–handsome as you’d wish to see. You may lay to it that what Sal Hancock doesn’t know about a boat isn’t worth knowing.”

“All the same, I’ll warrant she never means to row a race in that condemned old tub. She’ve dragged it out just for practice, and painted it up to make a show. When the time comes–if ever it do– she’ll fit and borrow a new boat off one of the war-ships. We can do the same.”

“Granted that you can, there’s the question of the crew. Sal has her thwarts manned–or womanned, as you choose to put it–and maybe a dozen reserves to pick from in case of accident. She means business, I tell you. There’s Regatta not five weeks away, and pretty fools we shall look if she sends round the crier on Regatta Day ‘O-yessing’ to all the world that Saltash men can’t raise a boat’s crew to match a passel of females, and two of ’em”–he meant Mary Kitty Climo and Ann Pengelly–“mothers of long families.”

They discussed it long and they discussed it close, and this way and that way, until at last Landlord Oke had roughed-out a crew. There was no trouble about a stroke. That thwart went nem. con. to a fellow called Seth Ede, that worked the ferry and had won prizes in his day all up and down the coast: indeed, the very Plymouth men had been afraid of him for two or three seasons before he gave up racing, which was only four years ago. Some doubted that old Roper Retallack, who farmed the ferry that year, would spare Seth on Regatta Day: but Oke undertook to arrange this. Thwart No. 4 went with no more dispute to a whackin’ big waterman by the name of Tremenjous Hosken, very useful for his weight, though a trifle thick in the waist. As for strength, he could break a pint mug with one hand, creaming it between his fingers. Then there was Jago the Preventive man, light but wiry, and a very tricky wrestler: “a proper angle-twitch of a man,” said one of the company; “stank ‘pon both ends of ‘en, and he’ll rise up in the middle and laugh at ‘ee.” So they picked Jago for boat-oar. For No. 5, after a little dispute, they settled on Tippet Harry, a boat-builder working in Runnell’s yard, by reason that he’d often pulled behind Ede in the double-sculling, and might be trusted to set good time to the bow-side. Nos. 2 and 3 were not so easily settled, and they discussed and put aside half a score before offering one of the places to a long-legged youngster whose name I can’t properly give you: he was always called Freckly-Faced Joe, and worked as a saddler’s apprentice. In the end he rowed 2; but No. 3 they left vacant for the time, while they looked around for likely candidates.