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The great regatta made ready under a fair wind; a west wind it was, mostly, a sort of sirocco from the sun-parched prairie, dry and hot. On the harbor jetties and piers, on the docks and breakwaters where the crowds collected, there was stark, staring sum heat; on the verandas of the Chicago Yacht Club, looking out over the big harbor and beyond it to the stake boat, was shade—ninety-two in the shade.

Three hundred and thirty miles away, at the tip of Lake Huron where the tiny isle of Mackinac lay like an emerald goal, it was ten degrees cooler only. Heat lay over all the lakes—violent, fiery July heat; but the wind was Steady and almost abeam, wherefore the crew of the Arletta smiled and sang, and hung a cap over the barometer. For the Arletta was a fair-weather boat, light and fast. Seldom could a sloop stay in sight with her, when all canvas was spread; she liked to lean before the wind and skurry and skim.

If she had to reef and trim, that was another matter; but her crew, with a cap hiding the barometer, did not consider it. They were committed to moderate weather; so, moderate weather must there be, whatever the mercury in the hidden barometer tried to tell them and whatever the forecaster cried.

A cannon fired—the warning gun! And the score of sail—schooners, yawls and sloops—luffed, jibed and jock