I thought so, too, and said we didn't want the line anyway.
Whereupon we cast off and hoisted the spritsail. The bullets

ceased at once, and we sailed away, unpleasantly confident that Big
Alec was laughing at our discomfiture.

And more than that, the next day on the fishing wharf, where we
were inspecting nets, he saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, and this

before all the fishermen. Charley's face went black with anger;
but beyond promising Big Alec that in the end he would surely land

him behind the bars, he controlled himself and said nothing. The
King of the Greeks made his boast that no fish patrol had ever

taken him or ever could take him, and the fishermen cheered him and
said it was true. They grew excited, and it looked like trouble

for a while; but Big Alec asserted his kingship and quelled them.
Carmintel also laughed at Charley, and dropped sarcastic remarks,

and made it hard for him. But Charley refused to be angered,
though he told me in confidence that he intended to capture Big

Alec if it took all the rest of his life to accomplish it.
"I don't know how I'll do it," he said, "but do it I will, as sure

as I am Charley Le Grant. The idea will come to me at the right
and proper time, never fear."

And at the right time it came, and most unexpectedly. Fully a
month had passed, and we were constantly up and down the river, and

down and up the bay, with no spare moments to devote to the
particular fisherman who ran a Chinese line in the bight of

Turner's Shipyard. We had called in at Selby's Smelter one
afternoon, while on patrol work, when all unknown to us our

opportunity happened along. It appeared in the guise of a helpless
yacht loaded with seasick people, so we could hardly be expected to

recognize it as the opportunity. It was a large sloop-yacht, and
it was helplessinasmuch as the trade-wind was blowing half a gale

and there were no capable sailors aboard.
From the wharf at Selby's we watched with careless interest the

lubberly manoeuvre performed of bringing the yacht to anchor, and
the equally lubberly manoeuvre of sending the small boat ashore. A

very miserable-looking man in draggled ducks, after nearly swamping
the boat in the heavy seas, passed us the painter and climbed out.

He staggered about as though the wharf were rolling, and told us
his troubles, which were the troubles of the yacht. The only

rough-weather sailor aboard, the man on whom they all depended, had
been called back to San Francisco by a telegram, and they had

attempted to continue the cruise alone. The high wind and big seas
of San Pablo Bay had been too much for them; all hands were sick,

nobody knew anything or could do anything; and so they had run in
to the smelter either to desert the yacht or to get somebody to

bring it to Benicia. In short, did we know of any sailors who
would bring the yacht into Benicia?

Charley looked at me. The Reindeer was lying in a snug place. We
had nothing on hand in the way of patrol work till midnight. With

the wind then blowing, we could sail the yacht into Benicia in a
couple of hours, have several more hours ashore, and come back to

the smelter on the evening train.
"All right, captain," Charley said to the disconsolate yachtsman,

who smiled in sickly fashion at the title.
"I'm only the owner," he explained.

We rowed him aboard in much better style than he had come ashore,
and saw for ourselves the helplessness of the passengers. There

were a dozen men and women, and all of them too sick even to appear
grateful at our coming. The yacht was rolling savagely, broad on,

and no sooner had the owner's feet touched the deck than he
collapsed and joined, the others. Not one was able to bear a hand,

so Charley and I between us cleared the badly tangled running gear,
got up sail, and hoisted anchor.

It was a rough trip, though a swift one. The Carquinez Straits
were a welter of foam and smother, and we came through them wildly

before the wind, the big mainsail alternately dipping and flinging
its boom skyward as we tore along. But the people did not mind.

They did not mind anything. Two or three, including the owner,
sprawled in the cockpit, shuddering when the yacht lifted and raced

and sank dizzily into the trough, and between-whiles regarding the
shore with yearning eyes. The rest were huddled on the cabin floor

among the cushions. Now and again some one groaned, but for the
most part they were as limp as so many dead persons.

As the bight at Turner's Shipyard opened out, Charley edged into it
to get the smoother water. Benicia was in view, and we were

bowling along over comparatively easy water, when a speck of a boat
danced up ahead of us, directly in our course. It was low-water

slack. Charley and I looked at each other. No word was spoken,
but at once the yacht began a most astonishingperformance, veering

and yawing as though the greenest of amateurs was at the wheel. It
was a sight for sailormen to see. To all appearances, a runaway

yacht was careering madly over the bight, and now and again
yielding a little bit to control in a desperate effort to make

Benicia.
The owner forgot his seasickness long enough to look anxious. The

speck of a boat grew larger and larger, till we could see Big Alec
and his partner, with a turn of the sturgeon line around a cleat,

resting from their labor to laugh at us. Charley pulled his
sou'wester over his eyes, and I followed his example, though I

could not guess the idea he evidently had in mind and intended to
carry into execution.

We came foaming down abreast of the skiff, so close that we could
hear above the wind the voices of Big Alec and his mate as they

shouted at us with all the scorn that professional watermen feel
for amateurs, especially when amateurs are making fools of

themselves.
We thundered on past the fishermen, and nothing had happened.

Charley grinned at the disappointment he saw in my face, and then
shouted:

"Stand by the main-sheet to jibe!"
He put the wheel hard over, and the yacht whirled around

obediently. The main-sheet slacked and dipped, then shot over our
heads after the boom and tautened with a crash on the traveller.

The yacht heeled over almost on her beam ends, and a great wail
went up from the seasick passengers as they swept across the cabin

floor in a tangled mass and piled into a heap in the starboard
bunks.

But we had no time for them. The yacht, completing the manoeuvre,
headed into the wind with slatting canvas, and righted to an even

keel. We were still plunging ahead, and directly in our path was
the skiff. I saw Big Alec dive overboard and his mate leap for our

bowsprit. Then came the crash as we struck the boat, and a series
of grinding bumps as it passed under our bottom.

"That fixes his rifle," I heard Charley mutter, as he sprang upon
the deck to look for Big Alec somewhere astern.

The wind and sea quickly stopped our forward movement, and we began
to drift backward over the spot where the skiff had been. Big

Alec's black head and swarthy face popped up within arm's reach;
and all unsuspecting and very angry with what he took to be the

clumsiness of amateur sailors, he was hauled aboard. Also he was
out of breath, for he had dived deep and stayed down long to escape

our keel.
The next instant, to the perplexity and consternation of the owner,

Charley was on top of Big Alec in the cockpit, and I was helping
bind him with gaskets. The owner was dancing excitedly about and

demanding an explanation, but by that time Big Alec's partner had
crawled aft from the bowsprit and was peering apprehensively over

the rail into the cockpit. Charley's arm shot around his neck and
the man landed on his back beside Big Alec.

"More gaskets!" Charley shouted, and I made haste to supply them.
The wrecked skiff was rolling sluggishly a short distance to