Short Stories
ashore, and come back to the smelter on the evening train.
"All right, captain," Charley said to the disconsolate
yachtsman, who smiled in sickly fashion at the title.
"I'm only the owner," he explained.
We rowed him aboard in much better style than he had
come ashore, and saw for ourselves the helplessness of the
passengers. There were a dozen men and women, and all of
them too sick even to appear grateful at our coming. The yacht
was rolling savagely, broad on, and no sooner had the owner's
feet touched the deck than he collapsed and joined, the others.
Not one was able to bear a hand, so Charley and I between us
cleared the badly tangled running gear, got up sail, and hoist-
ed anchor.
It was a rough trip, though a swift one. The Carquinez
Straits were a welter of foam and smother, and we came
through them wildly before the wind, the big mainsail alter-
nately dipping and flinging its boom skyward as we tore
along. But the people did not mind. They did not mind any-
thing. Two or three, including the owner, sprawled in the
cockpit, shuddering when the yacht lifted and raced and sank
dizzily into the trough, and between-whiles regarding the
shore with yearning eyes. The rest were huddled on the cabin
floor among the cushions. Now and again some one groaned,
but for the most part they were as limp as so many dead per-
sons.
As the bight at Turner's Shipyard opened out, Charley edged
into it to get the smoother water. Benicia was in view, and we
were bowling along over comparatively easy water, when a
speck of a boat danced up ahead of us, directly in our course.
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