He lapsed into glowering silence. "I like to race by the rules. A lot of people get mad at me. But I take the position it's all right to bump and shove and behave badly when you're racing little dinghies. But when you got 26 tons, it's something else again.
"In the race around the Channel Islands, which I have won, it takes five or six days. I suppose it's possible to start your motor overnight, if there's no wind. But I don't know anybody who'd do it. Corinthian Yachtsmen is the word for that kind of integrity, if that's what it is. But when you race up there around Richardson's Rock, it's possible to assume you've gone around it in the fog when, as a matter of fact, you haven't. If you haven't, it's possible you've shortened your course by two or three miles."
How often are you in close quarters?
Bogart's lips peeled back in the familiar third-reel sneer. He hissed. "Why, any stupid jerk would know that in a triangular race you're in close quarters all through the race."
There was another silence.
"How many knots will your boat do?" he was asked.
Bogart looked as if a gun had been pulled on him. "Why, you stupid idiot!" he roared. "Your speed depends on the wind. If there's no wind, it won't move! If there's a 100-mile-an-hour gale...Oh, nuts." And the Corinthian Yachtsman stalked away.
Mrs. Bogart sighed as she escorted the reporter to the door. "You'll have to forgive Bogie..." she murmured. "It's just that...."
"It's just that he's Bogart," prompted the intruder.
And Mrs. Bogart's face broke into a beatific smile.