Short Stories
It was low-water slack. Charley and I looked at each other. No
word was spoken, but at once the yacht began a most aston-
ishing performance, veering and yawing as though the green-
est of amateurs was at the wheel. It was a sight for sailormen
to see. To all appearances, a runaway yacht was careering
madly over the bight, and now and again yielding a little bit to
control in a desperate effort to make Benicia.
The owner forgot his seasickness long enough to look anx-
ious. The speck of a boat grew larger and larger, till we could
see Big Alec and his partner, with a turn of the sturgeon line
around a cleat, resting from their labor to laugh at us. Charley
pulled his sou'wester over his eyes, and I followed his exam-
ple, though I could not guess the idea he evidently had in
mind and intended to carry into execution.
We came foaming down abreast of the skiff, so close that
we could hear above the wind the voices of Big Alec and his
mate as they shouted at us with all the scorn that professional
watermen feel for amateurs, especially when amateurs are
making fools of themselves.
We thundered on past the fishermen, and nothing had
happened. Charley grinned at the disappointment he saw in
my face, and then shouted:
"Stand by the main-sheet to jibe!"
He put the wheel hard over, and the yacht whirled around
obediently. The main-sheet slacked and dipped, then shot over
our heads after the boom and tautened with a crash on the trav-
eller. The yacht heeled over almost on her beam ends, and a
great wail went up from the seasick passengers as they swept
across the cabin floor in a tangled mass and piled into a heap in
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