“He’s gone crazy,” muttered Grant. “What does he think he’s doing?”

George, having completed his strange performance, returned to the stern of the Balsam and quietly resumed his seat.

“What were you trying to do?” demanded John curiously.

“I scratched the mast.”

“I know you did. Why did you do it?”

“To give us more breeze.”

“I suppose scratching the mast is going to make the wind blow,” and John laughed loudly. “I think you’re crazy, Pop.”

“Wait and see,” said George calmly. “I remember that I once read somewhere about sailors scratching the mast when they wanted a breeze, so I thought I’d try it. We need to try everything if we want to win this race. They’re ahead of us now.”

“All right,” smiled John. “I guess you didn’t do any harm anyway.”

“That’s the way I figured,” exclaimed George. “All sailors are superstitious and they believe in those things. As long as we’re sailing, why don’t we try them ourselves?”

“Where’s your breeze?” demanded Grant.

“There it comes,” said George, pointing astern of them. A puff of wind was approaching and a patch of the water could be seen to be ruffled by its breath. A moment later it struck the Balsam and in answer the little catboat increased its speed.

“Why won’t the breeze help them as much as it does us?” inquired Fred.

“We’ll hope they won’t get any of it,” said George. “You notice that that last puff didn’t hit them and that we gained a little by it.”

“It’s certainly close,” said Grant. “We don’t want another tie, though, and we don’t want second place, either.”

“Only a quarter of a mile to go,” said Fred. “We’ll need more wind.”

“Scratch the mast again, Pop,” urged John.

George did so and another gust of wind caught them and drove them along a little faster.

“Isn’t that queer?” exclaimed Grant. “It seems to work though. Try it again, Pop.”

Again George scratched the mast and once more a puff of wind caught their sail. The Balsam was now several feet ahead of her rival and rapidly approaching the finish.

“Don’t do it any more, Pop,” urged Fred. “At least don’t do it as long as we are ahead. If they catch up to us try it again. Of course it’s all luck, but it is certainly strange, isn’t it?”

“It surely is,” agreed John. “How do you account for it?”

“You can’t account for it,” exclaimed Grant. “You don’t suppose that scratching the mast really makes the wind blow, do you? It has just happened that way, that’s all.”

Nearer and nearer the two boats came to the finish. Waiting for them was Mr. Maxwell, seated in one of the canoes, on a line with the tape.

“A little more sheet, String,” said Fred. “That’ll do.”

“They’re almost up to us,” whispered John, doing as Fred had ordered. “Let Pop scratch the mast again.”

George was eagerly awaiting a signal to do this very thing. Fred nodded to him, and using both hands this time George scratched the mast lustily. Call it coincidence or luck or whatever you like, a strong puff of wind struck the Balsam almost immediately. She heeled over and for the first time in a half-hour made such speed that it was possible to hear the water rippling under her bow.

“Here we go!” cried George lustily, and with a rush the Balsam swept forward and crossed the line a good six feet ahead of their rival.

“Balsam wins!” shouted Mr. Maxwell, and a hearty cheer for the victor was immediately given by the crew of the defeated boat.

“How did you like my stunt?” grinned George proudly, addressing his remarks to his three companions. “Any time you want to win a sailing race just come to me and I’ll tell you how to do it.”

“Huh!” snorted Fred, “I suppose you‘ll have a big head for the next year on account of that.”

“Look here, Fred,” exclaimed George, winking at his other friends. “I wouldn’t say very much if I were you. You insisted upon reefing the sail and as a result we nearly lost the race; if it hadn’t been for my great brain and cleverness we surely would have been beaten. However, as long as it turned out the way it did I will forgive you.”

“I made an error of judgment and yours was nothing but luck,” retorted Fred. “I want you to remember that, too.”

The boats were now returning to their moorings and when they had been made fast the crews went ashore and met on the dock to talk things over.

“You boys certainly have the closest finishes I’ve ever seen,” exclaimed Mr. Maxwell. “You don’t try to fix them that way, do you?”

“Not if we can help it, I tell you,” said Thomas laughingly. “I thought we were going to win this last race.”

“So did we,” exclaimed Grant. “You would have won, too, if it hadn’t been for George here. At least that’s what he says, anyway.”

“What did he do?” inquired Mr. Maxwell curiously.

“I scratched the mast,” said George.

“‘Scratched the mast’!” exclaimed Mr. Maxwell. “Why did you do that?”

“To bring us more wind.”

“You must be superstitious,” laughed Mr. Maxwell.

“Well,” said George, “I never used to be, but I am sort of that way now; it worked so beautifully.”

“Where did you ever hear of such a thing?”

“I read about it in some book and as things looked pretty desperate for us I thought I’d try it.”

“You mean to say that all you have to do when you want a breeze is to go up and scratch the mast?”

“Oh, I don’t think it would work every time,” laughed George. “I guess it will give you help only when you need it very badly. If you tried it all the time I suppose you’d soon wear out the charm.”

“Well, you won, anyway,” said Mr. Maxwell laughingly. “That makes you all tied with four and a half points for each team. The swimming race will have to decide it.”

“Is every one ready for that now?” asked Grant.

“The red team is ready for anything,” laughed Thomas.

“All right,” said Mr. Maxwell. “The race will start just as soon as possible and remember that the points will be decided, three for first, two for second, and one for third this time.”