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“Shan’t be worse off than other women, even if that happens,” said Rebecca Tucker, that was but a year married and more than half in love with her man. Sally had been in two minds about promoting Rebecca to the bow-oar in place of Ann Pengelly, that had been clipping the stroke short in practice: but after that speech she never gave the woman another thought.

Next evening the men brought out their opposition boat–she was called the Nonpareil–and tried a spin in her. They had found a man for No. 3 oar–another of the Water-Guard, by name Mick Guppy and by nation Irish, which Sal swore to be unfair. She didn’t lodge any complaint, however: and when her mates called out that ’twas taking a mean advantage, all she’d say was: “Saltash is Saltash, my dears; and I won’t go to maintain that a Saltash crew is anyways improved by a chap from Dundalk.”

So no protest was entered. I needn’t tell you that, by this time, news of the great race had spread to Plymouth, and north away to Callington and all the country round. Crowds came out every evening to watch the two boats at their practising; and sometimes, as they passed one another, Seth Ede, who had the reputation for a wag, would call out to Sal and offer her the odds by way of chaff. Sal never answered. The woman was in deadly earnest, and moreover, I dare say, a bit timmersome, now that the whole Borough had its eyes on her, and defeat meant disgrace.

She never showed a sign of any doubt, though; and when the great day came, she surpassed herself by the way she dressed. I dare say you’ve noticed that when women take up a man’s job they’re inclined to overdo it; and when Sal came down that day with a round tarpaulin-hat stuck on the back of her head, and her hair plaited in a queue like a Jack Tar’s, her spiteful little husband fairly danced.

“‘Tis onwomanly,” said he. “Go upstairs and take it off!”

“Ch’t,” said she, “if you’re so much upset by a tarpaulin-hat, you’ve had a narra escape; for ’tis nothing to the costume I’d a mind to wear–and I’d a mind to make you measure the whole crew for it.”

And as it was, I’m told, half the sightseers that poured into Saltash that day in their hundreds couldn’t tell the women’s crew from the men’s by their looks or their dress. And these be the names and weights, more or less:

The Indefatigable Woman: Bow, Ann Pengelly, something under eleven stone; No. 2, Thomasine Oliver, ditto; No. 3, Mary Kitty Climo, eleven and a half; No. 4, Long Eliza, thirteen and over, a woman very heavy in the bone; No. 5, Bess Rablin, twelve stone, most of it in the ribs and shoulders; Stroke, Sarah Hancock, twelve stone four; Coxswain, Ann Pengelly’s fourth daughter Wilhelmina, weight about six stone. The Indefatigable Woman carried a small distaff in the bows, and her crew wore blue jerseys and yellow handkerchiefs.

The Nonpareil: Bow, T. Jago, ten stone and a little over; No. 2, Freckly-Faced Joe, twelve stone; No. 3, M. Guppy, twelve stone and a half; No. 4, Tremenjous Hosken, eighteen stone ten; No. 5, Tippet Harry, twelve stone eight; Stroke, Seth Ede, eleven six. And I don’t know who the boy was that steered. The Nonpareil carried a red, white, and blue flag, and her crew wore striped jerseys, white and blue.

They were started by pistol; and Seth Ede, jumping off with a stroke of forty to the minute, went ahead at once. In less than twenty strokes he was clear, the Nonpareil lifting forward in great heaves that made the spectators tell each other that though ’twas no race they had seen something for their money. They didn’t see how sweetly the other boat held her way between the strokes, nor note that Sally had started at a quiet thirty-four, the whole crew reaching well out and keeping their blades covered to the finish–coming down to the stroke steadily, too, though a stiffish breeze was with them as well as the tide.