Loe raamatut: «Moran of the Lady Letty»

I. SHANGHAIED

This is to be a story of a battle, at least one murder, and several sudden deaths. For that reason it begins with a pink tea and among the mingled odors of many delicate perfumes and the hale, frank smell of Caroline Testout roses.

There had been a great number of debutantes “coming out” that season in San Francisco by means of afternoon teas, pink, lavender, and otherwise. This particular tea was intended to celebrate the fact that Josie Herrick had arrived at that time of her life when she was to wear her hair high and her gowns long, and to have a “day” of her own quite distinct from that of her mother.

Ross Wilbur presented himself at the Herrick house on Pacific Avenue much too early upon the afternoon of Miss Herrick’s tea. As he made, his way up the canvased stairs he was aware of a terrifying array of millinery and a disquieting staccato chatter of feminine voices in the parlors and reception-rooms on either side of the hallway. A single high hat in the room that had been set apart for the men’s use confirmed him in his suspicions.

“Might have known it would be a hen party till six, anyhow,” he muttered, swinging out of his overcoat. “Bet I don’t know one girl in twenty down there now—all mamma’s friends at this hour, and papa’s maiden sisters, and Jo’s school-teachers and governesses and music-teachers, and I don’t know what all.”

When he went down he found it precisely as he expected. He went up to Miss Herrick, where she stood receiving with her mother and two of the other girls, and allowed them to chaff him on his forlornness.

“Maybe I seem at my ease,” said Ross Wilbur to them, “but really I am very much frightened. I’m going to run away as soon as it is decently possible, even before, unless you feed me.”

“I believe you had luncheon not two hours ago,” said Miss Herrick. “Come along, though, and I’ll give you some chocolate, and perhaps, if you’re good, a stuffed olive. I got them just because I knew you liked them. I ought to stay here and receive, so I can’t look after you for long.”

The two fought their way through the crowded rooms to the luncheon-table, and Miss Herrick got Wilbur his chocolate and his stuffed olives. They sat down and talked in a window recess for a moment, Wilbur toeing-in in absurd fashion as he tried to make a lap for his plate.

“I thought,” said Miss Herrick, “that you were going on the Ridgeways’ yachting party this afternoon. Mrs. Ridgeway said she was counting on you. They are going out with the ‘Petrel.’”

“She didn’t count above a hundred, though,” answered Wilbur. “I got your bid first, so I regretted the yachting party; and I guess I’d have regretted it anyhow,” and he grinned at her over his cup.

“Nice man,” she said—adding on the instant, “I must go now, Ross.”

“Wait till I eat the sugar out of my cup,” complained Wilbur. “Tell me,” he added, scraping vigorously at the bottom of the cup with the inadequate spoon; “tell me, you’re going to the hoe-down to-night?”

“If you mean the Assembly, yes, I am.”

“Will you give me the first and last?”

“I’ll give you the first, and you can ask for the last then.”

“Let’s put it down; I know you’ll forget it.” Wilbur drew a couple of cards from his case.

“Programmes are not good form any more,” said Miss Herrick.

“Forgetting a dance is worse.”

He made out the cards, writing on the one he kept for himself, “First waltz—Jo.”

“I must go back now,” said Miss Herrick, getting up.

“In that case I shall run—I’m afraid of girls.”

“It’s a pity about you.”

“I am; one girl, I don’t say, but girl in the aggregate like this,” and he pointed his chin toward the thronged parlors. “It un-mans me.”

“Good-by, then.”

“Good-by, until to-night, about—?”

“About nine.”

“About nine, then.”

Ross Wilbur made his adieu to Mrs. Herrick and the girls who were receiving, and took himself away. As he came out of the house and stood for a moment on the steps, settling his hat gingerly upon his hair so as not to disturb the parting, he was not by any means an ill-looking chap. His good height was helped out by his long coat and his high silk hat, and there was plenty of jaw in the lower part of his face. Nor was his tailor altogether answerable for his shoulders. Three years before this time Ross Wilbur had pulled at No. 5 in his varsity boat in an Eastern college that was not accustomed to athletic discomfiture.

“I wonder what I’m going to do with myself until supper time,” he muttered, as he came down the steps, feeling for the middle of his stick. He found no immediate answer to his question. But the afternoon was fine, and he set off to walk in the direction of the town, with a half-formed idea of looking in at his club.

At his club he found a letter in his box from his particular chum, who had been spending the month shooting elk in Oregon.

“Dear Old Man,” it said, “will be back on the afternoon you receive this. Will hit the town on the three o’clock boat. Get seats for the best show going—my treat—and arrange to assimilate nutriment at the Poodle Dog—also mine. I’ve got miles of talk in me that I’ve got to reel off before midnight. Yours.

“JERRY.”

“I’ve got a stand of horns for you, Ross, that are Glory Hallelujah.”

“Well, I can’t go,” murmured Wilbur, as he remembered the Assembly that was to come off that night and his engaged dance with Jo Herrick. He decided that it would be best to meet Jerry as he came off the boat and tell him how matters stood. Then he resolved, since no one that he knew was in the club, and the instalment of the Paris weeklies had not arrived, that it would be amusing to go down to the water-front and loaf among the shipping until it was time for Jerry’s boat.

Wilbur spent an hour along the wharves, watching the great grain ships consigned to “Cork for orders” slowly gorging themselves with whole harvests of wheat from the San Joaquin Valley; lumber vessels for Durban and South African ports settling lower and lower to the water’s level as forests of pine and redwood stratified themselves along their decks and in their holds; coal barges discharging from Nanaimo; busy little tugs coughing and nuzzling at the flanks of the deep-sea tramps, while hay barges and Italian whitehalls came and went at every turn. A Stockton River boat went by, her stern wheel churning along behind, like a huge net-reel; a tiny maelstrom of activity centred about an Alaska Commercial Company’s steamboat that would clear for Dawson in the morning.

No quarter of one of the most picturesque cities in the world had more interest for Wilbur than the water-front. In the mile or so of shipping that stretched from the docks where the China steamships landed, down past the ferry slips and on to Meiggs’s Wharf, every maritime nation in the world was represented. More than once Wilbur had talked to the loungers of the wharves, stevedores out of work, sailors between voyages, caulkers and ship chandlers’ men looking—not too earnestly—for jobs; so that on this occasion, when a little, undersized fellow in dirty brown sweater and clothes of Barbary coast cut asked him for a match to light his pipe, Wilbur offered a cigar and passed the time of day with him. Wilbur had not forgotten that he himself was dressed for an afternoon function. But the incongruity of the business was precisely what most amused him.

After a time the fellow suggested drinks. Wilbur hesitated for a moment. It would be something to tell about, however, so, “All right, I’ll drink with you,” he said.

The brown sweater led the way to a sailors’ boarding-house hard by. The rear of the place was built upon piles over the water. But in front, on the ground floor, was a barroom.

“Rum an’ gum,” announced the brown sweater, as the two came in and took their places at the bar.

“Rum an’ gum, Tuck; wattle you have, sir?”

“Oh—I don’t know,” hesitated Wilbur; “give me a mild Manhattan.”

While the drinks were being mixed the brown sweater called Wilbur’s attention to a fighting head-dress from the Marquesas that was hung on the wall over the free-lunch counter and opposite the bar. Wilbur turned about to look at it, and remained so, his back to the barkeeper, till the latter told them their drinks were ready.

“Well, mate, here’s big blocks an’ taut hawse-pipes,” said the brown sweater cordially.

“Your very good health,” returned Wilbur.

The brown sweater wiped a thin mustache in the hollow of his palm, and wiped that palm upon his trouser leg.

“Yessir,” he continued, once more facing the Marquesas head-dress. “Yessir, they’re queer game down there.”

“In the Marquesas Islands, you mean?” said Wilbur.

“Yessir, they’re queer game. When they ain’t tattoin’ theirselves with Scripture tex’s they git from the missionaries, they’re pullin’ out the hairs all over their bodies with two clam-shells. Hair by hair, y’ understan’?”

“Pull’n out ‘er hair?” said Wilbur, wondering what was the matter with his tongue.

“They think it’s clever—think the women folk like it.”

Wilbur had fancied that the little man had worn a brown sweater when they first met. But now, strangely enough, he was not in the least surprised to see it iridescent like a pigeon’s breast.

“Y’ ever been down that way?” inquired the little man next.

Wilbur heard the words distinctly enough, but somehow they refused to fit into the right places in his brain. He pulled himself together, frowning heavily.

“What—did—you—say?” he asked with great deliberation, biting off his words. Then he noticed that he and his companion were no longer in the barroom, but in a little room back of it. His personality divided itself. There was one Ross Wilbur—who could not make his hands go where he wanted them, who said one word when he thought another, and whose legs below the knee were made of solid lead. Then there was another Ross Wilbur—Ross Wilbur, the alert, who was perfectly clear-headed, and who stood off to one side and watched his twin brother making a monkey of himself, without power and without even the desire of helping him.

This latter Wilbur heard the iridescent sweater say:

“Bust me, if y’ a’n’t squiffy, old man. Stand by a bit an’ we’ll have a ball.”

“Can’t have got—return—exceptionally—and the round table—pull out hairs wi’ tu clamsh’ls,” gabbled Wilbur’s stupefied double; and Wilbur the alert said to himself: “You’re not drunk, Ross Wilbur, that’s certain; what could they have put in your cocktail?”

The iridescent sweater stamped twice upon the floor and a trap-door fell away beneath Wilbur’s feet like the drop of a gallows. With the eyes of his undrugged self Wilbur had a glimpse of water below. His elbow struck the floor as he went down, and he fell feet first into a Whitehall boat. He had time to observe two men at the oars and to look between the piles that supported the house above him and catch a glimpse of the bay and a glint of the Contra Costa shore. He was not in the least surprised at what had happened, and made up his mind that it would be a good idea to lie down in the boat and go to sleep.

Suddenly—but how long after his advent into the boat he could not tell—his wits began to return and settle themselves, like wild birds flocking again after a scare. Swiftly he took in the scene. The blue waters of the bay around him, the deck of a schooner on which he stood, the Whitehall boat alongside, and an enormous man with a face like a setting moon wrangling with his friend in the sweater—no longer iridescent.

“What do you call it?” shouted the red man. “I want able seamen—I don’t figger on working this boat with dancing masters, do I? We ain’t exactly doing quadrilles on my quarterdeck. If we don’t look out we’ll step on this thing and break it. It ain’t ought to be let around loose without its ma.”

“Rot that,” vociferated the brown sweater. “I tell you he’s one of the best sailor men on the front. If he ain’t we’ll forfeit the money. Come on, Captain Kitchell, we made show enough gettin’ away as it was, and this daytime business ain’t our line. D’you sign or not? Here’s the advance note. I got to duck my nut or I’ll have the patrol boat after me.”

“I’ll sign this once,” growled the other, scrawling his name on the note; “but if this swab ain’t up to sample, he’ll come back by freight, an’ I’ll drop in on mee dear friend Jim when we come back and give him a reel nice time, an’ you can lay to that, Billy Trim.” The brown sweater pocketed the note, went over the side, and rowed off.

Wilbur stood in the waist of a schooner anchored in the stream well off Fisherman’s wharf. In the forward part of the schooner a Chinaman in brown duck was mixing paint. Wilbur was conscious that he still wore his high hat and long coat, but his stick was gone and one gray glove was slit to the button. In front of him towered the enormous red-faced man. A pungent reek of some kind of rancid fat or oil assailed his nostrils. Over by Alcatraz a ferry-boat whistled for its slip as it elbowed its way through the water.

Wilbur had himself fairly in hand by now. His wits were all about him; but the situation was beyond him as yet.

“Git for’d,” commanded the big man.

Wilbur drew himself up, angry in an instant. “Look here,” he began, “what’s the meaning of this business? I know I’ve been drugged and mishandled. I demand to be put ashore. Do you understand that?”

“Angel child,” whimpered the big man. “Oh, you lilee of the vallee, you bright an’ mornin’ star. I’m reely pained y’know, that your vally can’t come along, but we’ll have your piano set up in the lazarette. It gives me genuine grief, it do, to see you bein’ obliged to put your lilee white feet on this here vulgar an’ dirtee deck. We’ll have the Wilton carpet down by to-morrer, so we will, my dear. Yah-h!” he suddenly broke out, as his rage boiled over. “Git for’d, d’ye hear! I’m captain of this here bathtub, an’ that’s all you need to know for a good while to come. I ain’t generally got to tell that to a man but once; but I’ll stretch the point just for love of you, angel child. Now, then, move!”

Wilbur stood motionless—puzzled beyond expression. No experience he had ever been through helped in this situation.

“Look here,” he began, “I—”

The captain knocked him down with a blow of one enormous fist upon the mouth, and while he was yet stretched upon the deck kicked him savagely in the stomach. Then he allowed him to rise, caught him by the neck and the slack of his overcoat, and ran him forward to where a hatchway, not two feet across, opened in the deck. Without ado, he flung him down into the darkness below; and while Wilbur, dizzied by the fall, sat on the floor at the foot of the vertical companion-ladder, gazing about him with distended eyes, there rained down upon his head, first an oilskin coat, then a sou’wester, a pair of oilskin breeches, woolen socks, and a plug of tobacco. Above him, down the contracted square of the hatch, came the bellowing of the Captain’s voice:

“There’s your fit-out, Mister Lilee of the Vallee, which the same our dear friend Jim makes a present of and no charge, because he loves you so. You’re allowed two minutes to change, an’ it is to be hoped as how you won’t force me to come for to assist.”

It would have been interesting to have followed, step by step, the mental process that now took place in Ross Wilbur’s brain. The Captain had given him two minutes in which to change. The time was short enough, but even at that Wilbur changed more than his clothes during the two minutes he was left to himself in the reekind dark of the schooner’s fo’castle. It was more than a change—it was a revolution. What he made up his mind to do—precisely what mental attitude he decided to adopt, just what new niche he elected wherein to set his feet, it is difficult to say. Only by results could the change be guessed at. He went down the forward hatch at the toe of Kitchell’s boot—silk-hatted, melton-overcoated, patent-booted, and gloved in suedes. Two minutes later there emerged upon the deck a figure in oilskins and a sou’wester. There was blood upon the face of him and the grime of an unclean ship upon his bare hands. It was Wilbur, and yet not Wilbur. In two minutes he had been, in a way, born again. The only traces of his former self were the patent-leather boots, still persistent in their gloss and shine, that showed grim incongruity below the vast compass of the oilskin breeches.

As Wilbur came on deck he saw the crew of the schooner hurrying forward, six of them, Chinamen every one, in brown jeans and black felt hats. On the quarterdeck stood the Captain, barking his orders.

“Consider the Lilee of the Vallee,” bellowed the latter, as his eye fell upon Wilbur the Transformed. “Clap on to that starboard windlass brake, sonny.”

Wilbur saw the Chinamen ranging themselves about what he guessed was the windlass in the schooner’s bow. He followed and took his place among them, grasping one of the bars.

“Break down!” came the next order. Wilbur and the Chinamen obeyed, bearing up and down upon the bars till the slack of the anchor-chain came home and stretched taut and dripping from the hawse-holes.

“‘Vast heavin’!”

And then as Wilbur released the brake and turned about for the next order, he cast his glance out upon the bay, and there, not a hundred and fifty yards away, her spotless sails tense, her cordage humming, her immaculate flanks slipping easily through the waves, the water hissing and churning under her forefoot, clean, gleaming, dainty, and aristocratic, the Ridgeways’ yacht “Petrel” passed like a thing of life. Wilbur saw Nat Ridgeway himself at the wheel. Girls in smart gowns and young fellows in white ducks and yachting caps—all friends of his—crowded the decks. A little orchestra of musicians were reeling off a quickstep.

The popping of a cork and a gale of talk and laughter came to his ears. Wilbur stared at the picture, his face devoid of expression. The “Petrel” came on—drew nearer—was not a hundred feet away from the schooner’s stern. A strong swimmer, such as Wilbur, could cover the distance in a few strides. Two minutes ago Wilbur might have—

“Set your mains’l,” came the bellow of Captain Kitchell. “Clap on to your throat and peak halyards.”

The Chinamen hurried aft.

Wilbur followed.

II. A NAUTICAL EDUCATION

In the course of the next few moments, while the little vessel was being got under way, and while the Ridgeways’ “Petrel” gleamed off into the blue distance, Wilbur made certain observations.

The name of the boat on which he found himself was the “Bertha Millner.” She was a two-topmast, 28-ton keel schooner, 40 feet long, carrying a large spread of sail—mainsail, foresail, jib, flying-jib, two gaff-topsails, and a staysail. She was very dirty and smelt abominably of some kind of rancid oil. Her crew were Chinamen; there was no mate. But the cook—himself a Chinaman—who appeared from time to time at the door of the galley, a potato-masher in his hand, seemed to have some sort of authority over the hands. He acted in a manner as a go-between for the Captain and the crew, sometimes interpreting the former’s orders, and occasionally giving one of his own.

Wilbur heard the Captain address him as Charlie. He spoke pigeon English fairly. Of the balance of the crew—the five Chinamen—Wilbur could make nothing. They never spoke, neither to Captain Kitchell, to Charlie, nor to each other; and for all the notice they took of Wilbur he might easily have been a sack of sand. Wilbur felt that his advent on the “Bertha Millner” was by its very nature an extraordinary event; but the absolute indifference of these brown-suited Mongols, the blankness of their flat, fat faces, the dulness of their slanting, fishlike eyes that never met his own or even wandered in his direction, was uncanny, disquieting. In what strange venture was he now to be involved, toward what unknown vortex was this new current setting, this current that had so suddenly snatched him from the solid ground of his accustomed life?

He told himself grimly that he was to have a free cruise up the bay, perhaps as far as Alviso; perhaps the “Bertha Millner” would even make the circuit of the bay before returning to San Francisco. He might be gone a week. Wilbur could already see the scare-heads of the daily papers the next morning, chronicling the disappearance of “One of Society’s Most Popular Members.”

“That’s well, y’r throat halyards. Here, Lilee of the Vallee, give a couple of pulls on y’r peak halyard purchase.”

Wilbur stared at the Captain helplessly.

“No can tell, hey?” inquired Charlie from the galley. “Pullum disa lope, sabe?”

Wilbur tugged at the rope the cook indicated.

“That’s well, y’r peak halyard purchase,” chanted Captain Kitchell.

Wilbur made the rope fast. The mainsail was set, and hung slatting and flapping in the wind. Next the for’sail was set in much the same manner, and Wilbur was ordered to “lay out on the ji’boom and cast the gaskets off the jib.” He “lay out” as best he could and cast off the gaskets—he knew barely enough of yachting to understand an order here and there—and by the time he was back on the fo’c’sle head the Chinamen were at the jib halyard and hoisting away.

“That’s well, y’r jib halyards.”

The “Bertha Millner” veered round and played off to the wind, tugging at her anchor.

“Man y’r windlass.”

Wilbur and the crew jumped once more to the brakes.

“Brake down, heave y’r anchor to the cathead.”

The anchor-chain, already taut, vibrated and then cranked through the hawse-holes as the hands rose and fell at the brakes. The anchor came home, dripping gray slime. A nor’west wind filled the schooner’s sails, a strong ebb tide caught her underfoot.

“We’re off,” muttered Wilbur, as the “Bertha Millner” heeled to the first gust.

But evidently the schooner was not bound up the bay.

“Must be Vallejo or Benicia, then,” hazarded Wilbur, as the sails grew tenser and the water rippled ever louder under the schooner’s forefoot. “Maybe they’re going after hay or wheat.”

The schooner was tacking, headed directly for Meiggs’s wharf. She came in closer and closer, so close that Wilbur could hear the talk of the fishermen sitting on the stringpieces. He had just made up his mind that they were to make a landing there, when—

“Stand by for stays,” came the raucous bark of the Captain, who had taken on the heel. The sails slatted furiously as the schooner came about. Then the “Bertha Millner” caught the wind again and lay over quietly and contentedly to her work. The next tack brought the schooner close under Alcatraz. The sea became heavier, the breeze grew stiff and smelled of the outside ocean. Out beyond them to westward opened the Golden Gate, a bleak vista of gray-green water roughened with white-caps.

“Stand by for stays.”

Once again as the rudder went hard over, the “Bertha Millner” fretted and danced and shook her sails, calling impatiently for the wind, chafing at its absence like a child reft of a toy. Then again she scooped the nor’wester in the hollow palms of her tense canvases and settled quietly down on the new tack, her bowsprit pointing straight toward the Presidio.

“We’ll come about again soon,” Wilbur told himself, “and stand over toward the Contra Costa shore.”

A fine huge breath of wind passed over the schooner. She heeled it on the instant, the water roaring along her quarter, but she kept her course. Wilbur fell thoughtful again, never more keenly observant.

“She must come about soon,” he muttered uneasily, “if she’s going to stand up toward Vallejo.” His heart sank with a sudden apprehension. A nervousness he could not overcome seized upon him. The “Bertha Millner” held tenaciously to the tack. Within fifty yards of the Presidio came the command again:

“Stand by for stays.”

Once more, her bows dancing, her cordage rattling, her sails flapping noisily, the schooner came about. Anxiously Wilbur observed the bowsprit as it circled like a hand on a dial, watching where now it would point. It wavered, fluctuated, rose, fell, then settled easily, pointing toward Lime Point. Wilbur felt a sudden coldness at his heart.

“This isn’t going to be so much fun,” he muttered between his teeth. The schooner was not bound up the bay for Alviso nor to Vallejo for grain. The track toward Lime Point could mean but one thing. The wind was freshening from the nor’west, the ebb tide rushing out to meet the ocean like a mill-race, at every moment the Golden Gate opened out wider, and within two minutes after the time of the last tack the “Bertha Millner” heeled to a great gust that had come booming in between the heads, straight from the open Pacific.

“Stand by for stays.”

As before, one of the Chinese hands stood by the sail rope of the jib.

“Draw y’r jib.”

The jib filled. The schooner came about on the port tack; Lime Point fell away over the stern rail. The huge ground swells began to come in, and as she rose and bowed to the first of these it was precisely as though the “Bertha Millner” were making her courtesy to the great gray ocean, now for the first time in full sight on her starboard quarter.

The schooner was beating out to sea through the Middle Channel. Once clear of the Golden Gate, she stood over toward the Cliff House, then on the next tack cleared Point Bonita. The sea began building up in deadly earnest—they were about to cross the bar. Everything was battened down, the scuppers were awash, and the hawse-holes spouted like fountains after every plunge. Once the Captain ordered all men aloft, just in time to escape a gigantic dull green roller that broke like a Niagara over the schooner’s bows, smothering the decks knee-deep in a twinkling.

The wind blew violent and cold, the spray was flying like icy small-shot. Without intermission the “Bertha Millner” rolled and plunged and heaved and sank. Wilbur was drenched to the skin and sore in every joint, from being shunted from rail to mast and from mast to rail again. The cordage sang like harp-strings, the schooner’s forefoot crushed down into the heaving water with a hissing like that of steam, blocks rattled, the Captain bellowed his orders, rope-ends flogged the hollow deck till it reverberated like a drum-head. The crossing of the bar was one long half-hour of confusion and discordant sound.

When they were across the bar the Captain ordered the cook to give the men their food.

“Git for’rd, sonny,” he added, fixing Wilbur with his eye. “Git for’rd, this is tawble dee hote, savvy?”

Wilbur crawled forward on the reeling deck, holding on now to a mast, now to a belaying-pin, now to a stay, watching his chance and going on between the inebriated plunges of the schooner.

He descended the fo’c’sle hatch. The Chinamen were already there, sitting on the edges of their bunks. On the floor, at the bottom of the ladder, punk-sticks were burning in an old tomato-can.

Charlie brought in supper—stewed beef and pork in a bread-pan and a wooden kit—and the Chinamen ate in silence with their sheath-knives and from tin plates. A liquid that bore a distant resemblance to coffee was served. Wilbur learned afterward to know the stuff as Black Jack, and to be aware that it was made from bud barley and was sweetened with molasses. A single reeking lamp swung with the swinging of the schooner over the centre of the group, and long after Wilbur could remember the grisly scene—the punk-sticks, the bread-pan full of hunks of meat, the horrid close and oily smell, and the circle of silent, preoccupied Chinese, each sitting on his bunk-ledge, devouring stewed pork and holding his pannikin of Black Jack between his feet against the rolling of the boat.

Wilbur looked fearfully at the mess in the pan, recalling the chocolate and stuffed olives that had been his last luncheon.

“Well,” he muttered, clinching his teeth, “I’ve got to come to it sooner or later.” His penknife was in the pocket of his waist-coat, underneath his oilskin coat. He opened the big blade, harpooned a cube of pork, and deposited it on his tin plate. He ate it slowly and with savage determination. But the Black Jack was more than he could bear.

“I’m not hungry enough for that just now,” he told himself. “Say, Jim,” he said, turning to the Chinaman next him on the bunk-ledge, “say, what kind of boat is this? What you do—where you go?”

The other moved away impatiently.

“No sabe, no sabe,” he answered, shaking his head and frowning. Throughout the whole of that strange meal these were the only words spoken.

When Wilbur came on deck again he noted that the “Bertha Millner” had already left the whistling-buoy astern. Off to the east, her sails just showing above the waves, was a pilot-boat with the number 7 on her mainsail. The evening was closing in; the Farallones were in plain sight dead ahead. Far behind, in a mass of shadow just bluer than the sky, he could make out a few twinkling lights—San Francisco.

Half an hour later Kitchell came on deck from his supper in the cabin aft. He glanced in the direction of the mainland, now almost out of sight, then took the wheel from one of the Chinamen and commanded, “Ease off y’r fore an’ main sheets.” The hands eased away and the schooner played off before the wind.

The staysail was set. The “Bertha Millner” headed to southwest, bowling easily ahead of a good eight-knot breeze.

Next came the order “All hands aft!” and Wilbur and his mates betook themselves to the quarterdeck. Charlie took the wheel, and he and Kitchell began to choose the men for their watches, just as Wilbur remembered to have chosen sides for baseball during his school days.

“Sonny, I’ll choose you; you’re on my watch,” said the Captain to Wilbur, “and I will assoom the ree-sponsibility of your nautical eddoocation.”

“I may as well tell you at once,” began Wilbur, “that I’m no sailor.”

“But you will be, soon,” answered the Captain, at once soothing and threatening; “you will be, Mister Lilee of the Vallee, you kin lay to it as how you will be one of the best sailormen along the front, as our dear friend Jim says. Before I git throo with you, you’ll be a sailorman or shark-bait, I can promise you. You’re on my watch; step over here, son.”