Dorothy thought perhaps they might, and after a consultation with the steward the Junior Cup was borne in state into the room, and set in the place of honor at the head of the table between Dorothy and Polly, the two commodores.
“Day after to-morrow,” said Sue, thoughtfully regarding it, “I shall go home with that under my arm.”
“Listen to her, girls,” Kate cried. “And remember what I prophesy. The _Patsy D._ will finish fifth, while the _Witch Cat_ glides over the line first.”
Polly said nothing. From her seat beside Dorothy, she looked at the beautiful silver cup and thought of the race. She had said she was a good sportsman, as the Admiral wished her to be, and she was sure she could see the Cup go to the best yacht without any feeling of envy, but she almost wished there might have been nine consolation prizes, for something seemed to tell her that the _Pirate_ would be the winner. There was something different about Tom’s big knockabout, and the daring way that Nancy sailed her, that left the other boats out in the cold. Nancy knew the bay well. She was used to every ripple on it, every turn of the tide, every breath of wind, every mood and whim that passed over it like cloud shadows. And she knew, too, the trim, slender boat as she might some live, tamed animal that loved her. The Cup would mean a great deal more to her than to the other girls. Most of them came from well-to-do families, and they themselves were happy, normal city-bred girls, who had had plenty of amusement and novelty in their lives, while Nancy had spent all of hers in the little gray cottage that listed to leeward on Fair Havens’ beach. She had never even been inside the Orienta until the girls took her with them, and now that she was there and had a chance of winning the Cup, she seemed like another girl. While the rest chatted and laughed, she sat quietly by, but Polly caught her glance now and then, and the quick, wistful smile, and she knew what she was thinking about. Once, when Dorothy rose to make a little speech, Polly closed her eyes for a second, in a half-expressed prayer that if it were right for Nancy to win the race, she herself might be willing and glad to have her.
“But you’re not,” she told herself, after the luncheon, when they all went down to the beach to walk and pass the time. Her chin was raised, her brown eyes troubled, but she smiled in the old bright way, and laughed with the rest, even while she thought: “You’re not glad, Polly Page, that Nancy has even a little bit of a chance against the _Tidy Jane_, and you want the Cup with all your heart, and you know perfectly well that if Nancy were not in the race, you could win it.”