She wrung her hands and wept loudly as she stumbled among the windy rocks. The hours passed, and she was lost to herself and her grief. When she came to she found herself on the far end of the wall where it jutted into the bay between the Oakland and Alameda Moles. But she could see no wall. It was the time of the full moon, and the unusual high tide covered the rocks. She was knee deep in the water, and about her knees swam scores of big rock rats, squeaking and fighting, scrambling to climb upon her out of the flood. She screamed with fright and horror, and kicked at them. Some dived and swam away under water; others circled about her warily at a distance; and one big fellow laid his teeth into her shoe. Him she stepped on and crushed with her free foot. By this time, though still trembling, she was able coolly to consider the situation. She waded to a stout stick of driftwood a few feet away, and with this quickly cleared a space about herself.
A grinning small boy, in a small, bright-painted and half-decked skiff, sailed close in to the wall and let go his sheet to spill the wind. “Want to get aboard?” he called.
“Yes,” she answered. “There are thousands of big rats here. I'm afraid of them.”
He nodded, ran close in, spilled the wind from his sail, the boat's way carrying it gently to her.
“Shove out its bow,” he commanded. “That's right. I don't want to break my centerboard.... An' then jump aboard in the stern—quick!—alongside of me.”
She obeyed, stepping in lightly beside him. He held the tiller up with his elbow, pulled in on the sheet, and as the sail filled the boat sprang away over the rippling water.
“You know boats,” the boy said approvingly.
He was a slender, almost frail lad, of twelve or thirteen years, though healthy enough, with sunburned freckled face and large gray eyes that were clear and wistful.
Despite his possession of the pretty boat, Saxon was quick to sense that he was one of them, a child of the people.
“First boat I was ever in, except ferryboats,” Saxon laughed.