"I presume, commodore, the time was taken ?" "It has been," replied that official.

"The Flying Fish wins by one minute and four and seven hundredths seconds." More cheers greeted this announcement, mingled with laughter and some sympathy, as the club launch, towing the capsized hydroplane, puffed up to the float.

From the launch emerged three crestfallen figures with dripping garments.

But wet as he was, Jack Curtiss was not going to surrender the race without a protest.
"A foul! We claim a foul! The Flying Fish fouled us!" he shouted.
"My dear young man," calmly replied the commodore, "I was watching you every foot of the way through binoculars, and I should rather say that you fouled the Flying Fish.

Anyhow, you should have better sense than to try to shave round that turn so closely." More mortified, and angrier than ever, Jack strode off to put on dry clothes, followed by his equally chagrined companions, who, however, had sense enough now not to make any protests.