Moran of the Lady Letty | Page 7

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 EDUCATTON.
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,"