A crimp, the waiter, and one or two seamen offered their services. Stirling hesitated, but again he felt the urge from the second-lieutenant, and agreed by nodding his head.
The piano-player, who knew the path, led the way with the woman's feet under his arm, the waiter and a seaman supporting Thedessa's head. Stirling and the sailor brought up the rear.
"My name is Eagan," said the sailor. "We'll go along and see what happens. It's th' best way out of a nasty jam."
"Were you in the Bering Strait three seasons ago?"
Eagan shook his head, clutched Stirling's arm, and guided him after the trio who had carried the woman out upon Meigg's Wharf and were lowering her into a Whitehall boat.
"No," he said to Stirling. "But I got something to say to you—after awhile. Something important."
The Ice Pilot hesitated on the stringer-piece of the wharf and looked toward the fog-covered Bay, but again Eagan guided him on. They seized hold of a painter that was hitched to a cleat, descended to the Whitehall boat, and cast loose from the wharf.
Thedessa lay in the stern of the boat where the piano-player and waiter sat with their heads close together. A seaman rowed skilfully, and the sharp-prowed boat cut through the short waves, swung, steadied, and made toward a dark mass on the surface of San Francisco Bay.
Stirling suddenly felt water around his boots. He glanced down and lifted his feet. He heard a cry from the piano-player.
"We're sinking! There's no plug in this boat!"