He wouldn’t say what the business was, but he wanted my help and he wanted it that night. He also wanted the boat of the Greyhound brought over to Long Wharf.
“Just bring her over yourself,” said he. “No, we don’t want help, just you and me will manage it, and bring the mast and sail and some grub, never mind what I want her for, I’ll tell you later, it’s a paying business, as you’ll find.”
With that I took my leave of him and hiked off back to Tiburon, for the day was getting on and I had none too much time to get things together.
I was bothered and that’s the truth; Buck had gone off, wasn’t the same chap, and by his manner when he asked me to meet him with the boat, I knew it wasn’t pleasure sailing he was after. I near scratched the top off my head thinking what he could be wanting with that boat, but it was beyond me and I gave it up. Taute was the name of the Kanaka, same chap we had with us when we did that gun-running job down at Taleka, and when I got back to the Greyhound I set Taute to work, getting some grub together and a new spar for a mast as the old one was sprung. Then, getting along for evening, I rowed over to Long Wharf. Long Wharf was pretty busy just then, what with wheat ships cleaning up before towing to Berkley for cargo and Oregon timber ships and such. There was a schooner lying there belonging to a chap I knew, so I just tied up to her channel-plates and crossed over on to the wharf where I sits on a bollard kicking my heels and waiting for Buck.
Along he comes just on dark, and without a word he follows me across the deck of the schooner into the boat.
Tell you I felt queer. We’d sailed pretty close to the wind together me and him, gun-running and what not, but this job seemed different, sort of back-door business with the harbour police or the Fish Patrol waiting to lay for us if we hitched up on it anywhere. I’d been used to blue water doings and big things and it got my goat to feel we were after something small and shady. It wasn’t small by any means, but, anyhow, that’s how I felt. But I said nothing, taking the oars and Buck taking his place in the stern sheets. Then we pushed off, Buck steering and making as if he was layin’ a course for Oakland. A few cable lengths out we took the wind and put up the mast, and, Buck taking the sheet, off we set still laying as if we were bound for Oakland. I’d sooner be out anywhere than in the lower bay after dark, what between them dam screeching ferry boats and the motor launches and such. Every monkey in ’Frisco with brass enough seems to have some sort or another of a launch or yacht and to spend his natural trying to run folks down. We were near cut into twice, seeing we had no light, but after a while, getting off the main track and Buck shifting his helm, we got along better.
He was steering now laying straight for Angel Island. We passed Racoon Straits and kept on, the breeze freshening hard and the boat laying over to it. The sky was clear and a big moon was coming over the hills. Wonderful fine the bay is a night like that, with all the lights round showing yellow against the moon and ’Frisco showing up against Oakland.
However, we weren’t out to admire the view and we held on, at least Buck did, till we were near level, as far as I could make out, with Reeds and aiming for Red Rock, the wind holding well. We passed a Stockton boat and an old brig coming down from Benicia or somewhere up there. Then away ahead and coming along square as a haystack I sighted a Chinese junk. Buck let go the sheet and, lighting a lantern he’d brought with us, ran it up.
“What are you doing that for?” I asked him.
“Show you in a minute,” says Buck. “Give us the boat-hook.”