By four o'clock in the morning, Tom Deane, who was, as his new shipmates allowed, a hard-looking man who could, and would, pull his weight, lay fast asleep in a forward bunk of the California's foc'sle as she was being towed through the Golden Gate. And his flag-lieutenant was inquiring in hospital what had become of the admiral, and nobody could tell him more than he himself knew. So much he told the reporters of the Chronicle and the Morning Call, and flaring headlines announced the disappearance of a British admiral, and the wires and cables fairly hummed to England and the world generally. At the same time the San Francisco police laid every waterfront rat and tough by the heels on the chance that something might be got out of one of them.
"What did I tell you?" asked Bill in great alarm, as he saw several intimate friends of his being escorted to gaol.
"Are you weakenin' on it?" said Smith savagely. "If I thought you was, I'd murder you. Give me away, and when I get out, I'll chase you three times round the world and knife you, my son."
And though Bill was so much of a "terror," he could not face Smith's eyes.
"Well, I ain't in it, anyhow," he swore.
But certainly "Tom Deane, A.B." was in it, and was having a holy time.
When the admiral woke, which he did after half an hour's shaking administered in turns by three of the California's crew, who were anxious to know where he had stowed his bottle of rum, he was still confused with the "dope" given him ashore. So he lay pretty still and said:
"Send Mr. Selwyn to me."
But Selwyn was his flag-lieutenant, and was just then the centre of interest to many reporters.
"Send hell; rouse out, old son, and turn to," said one of his new mates. And the admiral rose and rested on his elbow.