Short Stories
river, and down and up the bay, with no spare moments to de-
vote to the particular fisherman who ran a Chinese line in the
bight of Turner's Shipyard. We had called in at Selby's Smelter
one afternoon, while on patrol work, when all unknown to us
our opportunity happened along. It appeared in the guise of a
helpless yacht loaded with seasick people, so we could hardly
be expected to recognize it as the opportunity. It was a large
sloop-yacht, and it was helpless inasmuch as the trade-wind
was blowing half a gale and there were no capable sailors
aboard.
From the wharf at Selby's we watched with careless interest
the lubberly manoeuvre performed of bringing the yacht to an-
chor, and the equally lubberly manoeuvre of sending the small
boat ashore. A very miserable-looking man in draggled ducks,
after nearly swamping the boat in the heavy seas, passed us the
painter and climbed out. He staggered about as though the
wharf were rolling, and told us his troubles, which were the
troubles of the yacht. The only rough-weather sailor aboard, the
man on whom they all depended, had been called back to San
Francisco by a telegram, and they had attempted to continue the
cruise alone. The high wind and big seas of San Pablo Bay had
been too much for them; all hands were sick, nobody knew any-
thing or could do anything; and so they had run in to the smelter
either to desert the yacht or to get somebody to bring it to Beni-
cia. In short, did we know of any sailors who would bring the
yacht into Benicia?
Charley looked at me. The Reindeer was lying in a snug
place. We had nothing on hand in the way of patrol work till
midnight. With the wind then blowing, we could sail the yacht
into Benicia in a couple of hours, have several more hours
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