“Three years before the first German-French war. It’s on the shipwright’s plate on the after gratings. ‘Duncan Matheson, 1867,’ that’s her birth certificate. One of the first yacht-building firms to start in ’Frisco.”
George said nothing, but he was thinking a lot.
“I had it in my mind that he’d have chartered her,” went on Hank, “it’s lucky he shied at that idea for I hadn’t thought of the whale boat. Why, between the whale boat and provisions and crew, it’ll take nearly all that five thousand dollars.”
“You wouldn’t care to take a bigger boat?” said George. “I’ll finance the business or go shares.”
“Oh, she’s big enough,” said Hank, “and this is my show. I’m doing it on my own hook; otherwise I’d have no interest in it. I’m awfully lucky to have got you, for you’re a millionaire, aren’t you, Bud, and you won’t want a hand in the profits, besides being the only man in ’Frisco that’d take the risks for the fun of the thing.”
“I believe I am,” said George, unenthusiastically.
CHAPTER V
JAKE
THE water front of San Francisco is unique. The long wharves, vibrating to the thunder of trade, show ships from all corners of the world; ships from China and the Islands, from Japan, from Africa, from India; tall Cape Horners, held to the wharves with wire mooring-lines, lie cleaning their bilges or lining their holds for grain cargoes with ships for Durban, ships for Cork, steamers for Seattle and Northern ports. Beyond lies the bay, blue or wind-beaten gray, busy with a shipping life of its own, with Oakland, six miles across the water, for a sister port. Beyond the bay are the hills that saw the desolation before the first Spaniards broke the ground or the keel of the first sandalwood trader rode the waters of the Golden Gate.