The waters were still, a faint ripple showing
in strange contrast to the scene of last night.
"There's a steamer behind us," said Dicky Nahl, with a worried look as
I joined him. "I've been listening to it for five minutes."
"It's a tug," said the captain. "She was lying on the other side of the
wharf last night."
"Good heavens!" I cried. "Put on full steam, then, or we shall be run
down in the bay. It's the gang we are trying to get away from."
The captain looked at me suspiciously for a moment, and was inclined to
resent my interference. Then he shrugged his shoulders as though it was
none of his business whether we were lunatics or not so long as we paid
for the privilege, and rang the engine bell for full speed ahead.
We had just come out of the Oakland Creek channel and the mist suddenly
thinned before us. It left the bay and the city fair and wholesome in
the gray light, as though the storm had washed the grime and foulness
from air and earth and renewed the freshness of life. The clear outline
of the hills was scarcely broken by smoke. The ever-changing beauties
of the most beautiful of bays took on the faint suggestion of a
livelier tint, the herald of the coming sun. We had come but a few
hundred yards into the clear air when out of the mist bank behind us
shot another tug, the smoke streaming from the funnel, the steam
puffing noisily from the escapes and the engine straining to increase
the speed.
At the exclamation that broke from us, our captain for the first time
showed interest in the speed of his boat, and whistled angrily down to
his engineer.
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