“I’ll try not to do that, sir,” I returned; but all during the day the possession of the big pocket-book made me nervous and uneasy. I constantly felt of my breast to see that the money was still safe, and it is a wonder my actions did not betray to some sly thief the fact that I was concealing the combined wealth of our little party.
No attempt was made to rob us, however, either at Chicago or during the remainder of the journey to the Pacific coast, and we arrived at our destination safely and in good spirits.
Uncle Naboth seemed especially pleased to reach San Francisco again.
“This car travellin’,” he said, “is good enough for landsmen that don’t know of anything better; but I’d rather spend a month at sea than a night in one of them stuffy, dangerous cars, that are likely to run off’n the track any minute.”
Ned Britton and I accompanied Mr. Perkins to a modest but respectable lodging-house near the bay, where we secured rooms and partook of a hearty breakfast. Then we took a long walk, and I got my first sight of the famous “Golden Gate.” I was surprised at the great quantity of shipping in the bay, and as I looked over the hundreds of craft at anchor I wondered curiously which was the “Flipper,” of which I was part owner—the gallant ship whose praises Uncle Naboth had sung so persistently ever since we left Batteraft.
After luncheon we hired a small boat, and Ned Britton undertook to row us aboard the “Flipper,” which had been hidden from our view by a point of land. I own that after my uncle’s glowing descriptions of her I expected to see a most beautiful schooner, with lines even nobler than those of the grand old “Saracen,” which had been my father’s pride for so many years. So my disappointment may be imagined when we drew up to a grimy looking vessel of some six hundred tons, with discolored sails, weather-worn rigging and a glaring need of fresh paint.
Ned Britton, however, rested on his oars, studied the ship carefully, and then slowly nodded his head in approval.
“Well, what d’ye think o’ her?” asked Uncle Naboth, relapsing into one of his silent chuckles at the expression of my face.
“She looks rather dirty, sir,” I answered, honestly.
“The ‘Flipper’ ain’t quite as fresh as a lily in bloom, that’s a fact,” returned my uncle, in no ways discomfited by my remark. “She wasn’t no deebutantee when I bought her, an’ her clothes has got old, and darned and patched, bein’ as we haven’t been near to a Paris dressmaker. But I’ve sailed in her these ten years past, Sam, an’ we’re both as sound as a dollar.”