The seafaring
folk of Antioch had seen us breaking out topsail and staysail, a
most reckless performance in such weather, and had hurried to the
wharf-ends in little groups to find out what was the matter.
Straight down the water front we boomed, Charley edging in till a
man could almost leap ashore. When he gave the signal I tossed the
marlinspike. It struck the planking of the wharf a resounding
smash, bounced along fifteen or twenty feet, and was pounced upon
by the amazed onlookers.
It all happened in a flash, for the next minute Antioch was behind
and we were heeling it up the San Joaquin toward Merryweather, six
miles away. The river straightened out here into its general
easterly course, and we squared away before the wind, wing-and-wing
once more, the foresail bellying out to starboard.
Ole Ericsen seemed sunk into a state of stolid despair. Charley
and the two sailors were looking hopeful, as they had good reason
to be. Merryweather was a coal-mining town, and, it being Sunday,
it was reasonable to expect the men to be in town.
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