As the _Maggie_ chugged blithely away, the navigating officer's
soul expanded in song, and in the voice of a bull walrus he
delivered himself of a deep sea chantey more popular than proper.
Presently, away off in the fog, he heard the _Bodega_ whistle.
The _Aphrodite_ answered immediately. Adelbert P. Gibney smiled
and bit a large crescent out of his navy plug, for his soul was
at peace. When The Squarehead came into the pilot house presently
and grinned at him, Mr. Gibney handed Neils an electric torch.
"Prowl around below in the old ruin, Neils," he commanded, "and
see if we're makin' any water."
A quarter of an hour later Neils Halvorsen returned to report the
_Maggie_ apparently undamaged, so Mr. Gibney changed his course
and headed stealthily in the direction of the whistling tugs. He
came up behind them presently--approaching so close under cover
of the fog that he could hear Dan Hicks and Jack Flaherty, both
under a dead-slow bell, felicitating each other through their
megaphones.
"Where d'ye suppose that dirty scoundrel's gone?" Hicks was
demanding.
"Out to sea, of course," Flaherty bellowed. "He'll stand off
until the fog lifts and then come ramping in as proud as Lucifer
and look amazed when we send him in a bill."
"Bill!" Hicks' voice dripped with sarcasm. "The Red Stack Company
will libel him, and if the old man doesn't, me an' my crew will."
"I'll bet a ripe peach he's a Jap, with a scoundrelly white
skipper and white mates. They'll all stick together for a
five-dollar bill and swear they never was on the beach at all. If
they do, how're we goin' to prove it?"
"That's logic," the eavesdropping Gibney murmured to the
binnacle.
"Oh, hell's bells, shut up and let's go home," Dan Hicks cried
wearily. "We can catch him when he comes in."
"Suppose he doesn't come in. Suppose he's bound for Seattle,
Dan."
"We can libel him wherever he goes."
"I'll bet he gave us a fictitious name, Dan!"
"Stow that grief, Jack. Stow it, or I'll go mad. The _Bodega_ has
more speed than the _Aphrodite_, so poke ahead there and let's
try to get in an hour's sleep before daylight. If you can't feel
your way in I can."
"I'll just tag along silent and lazy-like after you two
misfortunates," Mr. Gibney decided, "an' you'll do my whistlin'
for me." He called Scraggs on the howler and explained the
situation. "Regular Cook's tour," he exulted. "Personally
conducted. Off again, on again, away again, Finnegan--and not a
nickel's worth of loss unless you count them vegetables you hove
at McGuffey. Ain't you proud o' your navigatin' officer,
Scraggsy, old tarpot?"
"I am, Gib, but I'll be prouder'n ever if you can follow them
towboats in without havin' to claw off Baker's beach or the Point
Bonita rocks."
"Calamity howler," Gibney growled. Half an hour later he caught
the echo of the _Bodega's_ whistle as the sound was hurled back
from the high cliffs at Land's End, off to starboard. A minute
later he heard the hoarse growl of the siren from the fog station
on Point Bonita, on the port beam. He knew where he was now with
as much certainty as if he was navigating in broad daylight, so
he loafed along a couple of hundred yards behind the _Bodega_,
until the _Maggie_ ceased pitching--when he knew he was in the
still water inside the entrance. So he sheered over to starboard,
with Neils Halvorsen heaving the lead, and dropped anchor in five
fathoms under the lee of Fort Mason. He was quite confident of
his ability to sneak along the waterfront and creep into the
_Maggie's_ berth at Jackson Street bulkhead, but having gone
astray in his calculations once that night, a vagrant sense of
consideration for Captain Scraggs decided him to take no more
risks until the fog should lift. He could hear the _Bodega_ and
the _Aphrodite_ tooting as they continued down the bay, so he
knew they were headed for their berths at the foot of Broadway,
fog or no fog.
When Captain Scraggs, having banked his fires, came up out of the
engine room, Mr. Gibney laid a great paw paternally upon the
skipper's shoulder. "Scraggsy, old salamander," he announced, "I
think I've done enough to-night to entitle me to some sleep until
this tule fog lifts. Am I right?"
"You certainly are, Gib, my dear boy."
"Very well, then. I'll turn in. As for you, old sailor, your
night's work is not ended. Have The Squarehead row you ashore in
the skiff; I'll stay up an' work the patent foghorn so he can
find his way back to the _Maggie_, while you hike down town----"
"What for?" Scraggs demanded irritably. "I'm all wore out."
"This adventure ain't ended," Mr. Gibney warned him. "There's a
witness to our perfidy still at large. His name is B. McGuffey,
esquire, an' I'll lay you ten to one you'll find him asleep in
Scab Johnny's boardin' house. Go to him, Scraggsy, an' bring a
pint flask with you when you do; wake him up, beg his pardon,
take him to breakfast, and promise him you'll do somethin' for
his boilers. Old Mac's got a heart as tender as a infant's. You
can win him over."
"Oh, Gib, use some common sense. Mac'll lay abed until noon. It
stands to reason he'll have to, because he didn't take no change
of clothin' with him, so he'll just naturally have to wait till
his wet clothes get dry before venturin' forth an' spreadin' the
news that the _Maggie's_ on the beach. He doesn't know we're off,
an' once we're tied up at the dock and we hear Mac's been talkin'
we'll just spread the word that he was so soused he jumped
overboard an' swum ashore without waitin' to see if we could back
off. Lordy, Gib, don't work me to death. I'm that weary I could
flop on this wet deck an' be off to sleep in a pig's whisper."
"I dunno but what there's reason in what you say," Mr. Gibney
agreed. "Well, turn in, Scraggsy, but the minute we hit the dock
you run up town and fix things up with Bart."
And without further ado he set the alarm clock for seven o'clock,
kicked off his shoes, and climbed into his berth with his clothes
on.