Then, all of a sudden, came a question to his mind, “Would you sooner be respectably shooting in the Rockies or here?” Followed by the surprising and immediate answer, “Here.” Bughouse—clean bughouse—but the fact remained.
It was now getting on for two in the morning, and he went below, leaving the deck to the others. They intended carrying on till four, and then rousing the crew up for the morning watch.
They told him they would call him when they wanted him and he turned in, dropping to sleep the instant his head touched the pillow. When he awoke it was daylight, water dazzles were at play on the Venesta panellings, as the early sunlight through the portholes shifted to the lift of the swell, snores from the two other occupied bunks seemed to keep time to the movement of the Wear Jack and from the topmost starboard bunk, Hank’s pyjama-clad leg hung like the leg of a dead man.
The whole of the after-guard had turned in, leaving apparently the schooner to run herself. He turned out and without stopping to wake the others came hurriedly up the companion way on deck.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BAY OF WHALES
THE sun was up and away to port lay California, lifting her hills to heaven against the morning splendour, to starboard, a mile or so away, a big freighter, in ballast and showing the kick of her propeller, was pounding along north with the sunlight on her bridge canvas. Even at that distance George could hear the thud of her screw like the beating of a heart.
A Chinaman was at the helm of the Wear Jack, Champagne Charley no less, and forward another celestial was emptying a slush tub over the port rail.
George nodded to the helmsman, and then, taking his seat on the skylight edge, contemplated the coast.