“Never fear, sir,” the mate replied. “We'll have a puff of wind about daylight at the latest, and the current sets north and south here rather than toward the beach.”
For two hours after Captain Murphy had retired the Retriever rose and fell gently on the slightest swell, her booms and yards swinging idly amidships, her sails and cordage slatting listlessly as the vessel rolled.
Suddenly the lookout shouted: “Steamer on the port bow!” and the mate, following the direction indicated, made out the red and green sidelights and the single white light at the short masthead of the approaching vessel.
“Tug,” he announced to the man at the wheel. “Good enough! The lookout at Point Reyes reported us, and the owners have sent a tug out to snake us in.”
The mate's prognostication was correct in some particulars, for in about half an hour the tug steamed slowly alongside the Retriever and hailed her.
“Barkentine, ahoy!”
“Ahoy! Retriever, of the Blue Star, Astoria for San Francisco.”
“Sea Fox, of the Red Stack Line. Is Captain Murphy on deck?”
“No, but I'll send for him,” the mate shouted, and forthwith sent a man below to rout out the skipper. When Murphy came on deck and hailed the tug he nearly fainted at the information that came floating across the water.
“Murphy, this is Matt Peasley speaking.”