The youth started, stared, and lifted one hand tremblingly to his head.
"How did you happen to drop overboard?" inquired Matt.
"I—I don't know," was the indefinite rejoinder. "I just happened to, that's all. Where are you going?"
"To San Francisco—where you must have been going."
"Can't you put about and take me to Sausalito?"
The request surprised Motor Matt.
"Changed your mind about going to 'Frisco?"
"I don't want to go there. I want to go to Sausalito. It don't make any difference to you where you land me, does it?"
There was an arrogant, domineering air about the youth, even in his present half-demoralized condition, that struck the wrong kind of note in Matt's ears.
"It just happens," returned Matt, "that I'm to meet a friend at the foot of Clay Street, and he'll probably be waiting for me when I get there. I don't see how it makes very much difference to you, when it's certain you must have been going to the city when you dropped off the ferryboat."