CANDON
George did.
An abject and crawling apology from the _Piker_, published and paid
for in next morning’s papers, restarted the publicity campaign, and,
though the press never recovered its first careless rapture, the
thing had made good and was established in the mind of the public.
The letters came in day by day, some addressed to the club, some
care of Joe Barrett, all of the same tenor. The expedition that had
aroused mild merriment in the upper circles of San Francisco was
received in dead seriousness by the middle and lower circles—even
with enthusiasm. The thing had vast appeal to the movie-red mind;
the exploits of the Dutchman, inconsiderable enough in a world where
criminal license had suddenly added cubits to its stature, had been
boomed by the press. Hank Fisher had already a name to embroider on and
“Bud” du Cane was not unknown. Letters came from all round the Bay;
from Oakland, Berkeley, Port Costa, New York, California, Antioch,
Benicia, San Rafael and Tiburon; letters came from Monterey and all
down the coast. Letters from “all sorts and sexes” to put it in Hank’s
words. Women offered to come along as cooks, boys as “deck-hands,” a
retired banker at San Jo offered to pay to be taken along. Never in
any letter except that of the “bill-mackerel” was there a reference
to terms, all these people were ready to go for nothing but their
“grub and bunk” as one gentleman put it, and, if you wish to gauge the
utility of a personality like Hank’s, this vast and healthy wave of
adventure-craving which he had set going amongst the populace of the
state is an index.
“And not one of the lot is any use,” said Hank, as he sat in the cabin
with George one day about a week before the projected start. “I saw
those people I wrote to yesterday, one had consumption, another one had
swelled head, fancied himself a duke to judge by his talk, another was
six foot seven or thereabouts, couldn’t have taken him aboard without
his head sticking out of the saloon hatch, another guy was on a tramp
from Oskosh to S’uthern California and wanted to take the expedition
_en route_, he was an oil prospector and troubled with something that
made him want to scratch; then there was an Italian who’d been a
count and an Irishman who’d served in the Irish rebellion under Roger
Casement, a decent chap, but I’d just as soon take aboard a live bomb
shell. We’ll just have to make out, you and me, as after-guard—four
Chinks will be enough for a crew and I can pick them up by the handful.”
“When are the provisions and stuff coming on board?”
“Tomorrow or next day. I saw J. B. yesterday—”
“_Wear Jack_, ahoy!” came a voice from the wharf through the open
skylight.
“Hullo!” cried Hank. “Who’s that and what d’you want?”
A thud came on the deck followed by the voice at the companion hatch.
“May I come below?” The stairs creaked and at the saloon door appeared
a man.
The sun glow from the skylight struck him full as he stood there, a
huge, red-bearded, blue-eyed sailor man, neatly dressed in dark serge
and wearing a red necktie. His eyes were most taking and astonishing
liquid sparkling blue—the eyes of a child.
Contrasted with the hatchet-faced Hank and the sophisticated Bud, he
seemed youthful, yet he was older than either of them.