“Yes,” sighed Nat, “that’s about it.”
He was preparing to turn around in a rather larger patch of blue water than the others which lay amidst the yellow and green “danger signals,” when Joe tugged at his sleeve excitedly.
“Nat! Nat! Look there!”
Coming down the creek was a low, racy-looking motor boat without a cabin, but with a high, sharp cutwater that indicated that she was built for speed.
Nate, the sailor, gave a quick gasp of astonishment.
“Jee-hos-phat! That’s Israel Harley’s boat! Him as was suspected of smuggling opium for the Chinese smugglers but was acquitted on his trial.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Nat, “but I didn’t know he lived back in there.”
“Yes, Whale Creek, or a tributary of it, runs miles back, right up to Martinez almost. It’s a cinch for Israel to get that light-draught craft of his’n back up there. He lives in a sort of shanty town with a lot of other fishermen, and they say that, although all the crowd are hard and tough, Israel is the toughest of ’em.”
“I know he has a bad reputation. He must have made a lot of money, though, to buy that boat. She’s a beauty, and fast, I’ll bet,” said Nat, casting admiring glances on the high-bowed motor boat which could be seen threading the intricacies of Whale Creek as it wound in and out among the greenish-gray salt meadows.
“Yes, they say that Iz would do anything for money and wasn’t no ways partic’lar,” was the response. “I’ve hearn, too, that in old days he and his gang made a lot of coin by setting false lights on the shore and then looting the ships that was wrecked on that account. But that’s all long ago. I guess opium smuggling from South Sea schooners is more in his line now.”