“Anyway, she’s killed the rats,” one man shouted in answer to our call.
We grinned an appreciation of what we thought merely a facetious reply. Rats had not yet penetrated to the mines, so we did not know anything about them. Next day, in San Francisco, we began to apprehend the man’s remark.
Thus we rowed cheerfully about, having a good time at the other fellow’s expense. Suddenly Johnny, who was 386 steering, dropped his paddle with an exclamation. Yank and I turned to see what had so struck him. Beyond the trees that marked where the bank of the river ought to be we saw two tall smokestacks belching forth a great volume of black smoke.
“A steamer!” cried Yank.
“Yes, and a good big one!” I added.
We lay to our oars and soon drew alongside. She proved to be a side wheeler, of fully seven hundred tons, exactly like the craft we had often seen plying the Hudson.
“Now how do you suppose they got her out here?” I marvelled.
She was almost completely surrounded by craft of all descriptions; her decks were crowded. We read the name McKim on her paddle boxes.
A man with an official cap appeared at the rail.
“Bound for San Francisco?” I called to him.