We had Tiburon lights to starboard now and a bit to port the riding light of the old Greyhound, when, all of a sudden, we see a light running along towards us and heard the noise of a propeller like a sewing machine in a hurry.
“Police boat,” says Buck.
My heart rose up and got jammed in my throat, and I hadn’t more than swallowed it down when they were alongside of us, and there was Buck sitting in the stern sheets with the bundle under his legs, and a chap in the police boat playing a lantern on him.
Then the chap laughed.
“Oh, it’s only you, Buck,” says he. “What are you out for this time of night?”
“Smuggling opium,” says Buck.
The chap laughed. He was Dennis, well known to us both, and he shut his lantern and gave us the news that he was after some Chink smugglers who had their quarters at Valego and, fearing their shop was to be raided, were due to run some stuff into Tiburon that night according to his information.
“Well, we’ve just come down from San Quenton,” says Buck, “and I didn’t sight anything, only a big junk that passed us, making as if she was going to Oakland—Good luck to you.”
Off they went and five minutes after we were tying up to the Greyhound.
III