They were now off the coal bunkers of Long Wharf, and the boy put the skiff about, heading toward San Francisco. They were well out in the open bay. The west wind had strengthened and was whitecapping the strong ebb tide. The boat drove merrily along. When splashes of spray flew aboard, wetting them, Saxon laughed, and the boy surveyed her with approval. They passed a ferryboat, and the passengers on the upper deck crowded to one side to watch them. In the swell of the steamer's wake, the skiff shipped quarter-full of water. Saxon picked up an empty can and looked at the boy.
“That's right,” he said. “Go ahead an' bale out.” And, when she had finished: “We'll fetch Goat Island next tack. Right there off the Torpedo Station is where we fish, in fifty feet of water an' the tide runnin' to beat the band. You're wringing wet, ain't you? Gee! You're like your name. You're a Saxon, all right. Are you married?”
Saxon nodded, and the boy frowned.
“What'd you want to do that for? Now you can't wander over the world like I'm going to. You're tied down. You're anchored for keeps.”
“It's pretty good to be married, though,” she smiled.
“Sure, everybody gets married. But that's no reason to be in a rush about it. Why couldn't you wait a while, like me. I'm goin' to get married, too, but not until I'm an old man an' have been everywheres.”
Under the lee of Goat Island, Saxon obediently sitting still, he took in the sail, and, when the boat had drifted to a position to suit him, he dropped a tiny anchor. He got out the fish lines and showed Saxon how to bait her hooks with salted minnows. Then they dropped the lines to bottom, where they vibrated in the swift tide, and waited for bites.
“They'll bite pretty soon,” he encouraged. “I've never failed but twice to catch a mess here. What d'ye say we eat while we're waiting?”
Vainly she protested she was not hungry. He shared his lunch with her with a boy's rigid equity, even to the half of a hard-boiled egg and the half of a big red apple.
Still the rockcod did not bite. From under the stern-sheets he drew out a cloth-bound book.