Theres your fit-out, Mister Lilee of the Vallee, which the same our dear friend Jim makes a present of and no charge, because he loves you so. Youre allowed two minutes to change, an it is to be hoped as how you wont force me to come for to assist.
It would have been interesting to have followed, step by step, the mental process that now took place in Ross Wilburs brain. The Captain had given him two minutes in which to change. The time was short enough, but even at that Wilbur changed more than his clothes during the two minutes he was left to himself in the reekind dark of the schooners focastle. It was more than a changeit was a revolution. What he made up his mind to doprecisely what mental attitude he decided to adopt, just what new niche he elected wherein to set his feet, it is difficult to say. Only by results could the change be guessed at. He went down the forward hatch at the toe of Kitchells bootsilk-hatted, melton-overcoated, patent-booted, and gloved in suedes. Two minutes later there emerged upon the deck a figure in oilskins and a souwester. There was blood upon the face of him and the grime of an unclean ship upon his bare hands. It was Wilbur, and yet not Wilbur. In two minutes he had been, in a way, born again. The only traces of his former self were the patent-leather boots, still persistent in their gloss and shine, that showed grim incongruity below the vast compass of the oilskin breeches.
As Wilbur came on deck he saw the crew of the schooner hurrying forward, six of them, Chinamen every one, in brown jeans and black felt hats. On the quarterdeck stood the Captain, barking his orders.
Consider the Lilee of the Vallee, bellowed the latter, as his eye fell upon Wilbur the Transformed. Clap on to that starboard windlass brake, sonny.
Wilbur saw the Chinamen ranging themselves about what he guessed was the windlass in the schooners bow. He followed and took his place among them, grasping one of the bars.
Break down! came the next order. Wilbur and the Chinamen obeyed, bearing up and down upon the bars till the slack of the anchor-chain came home and stretched taut and dripping from the hawse-holes.
Vast heavin!
And then as Wilbur released the brake and turned about for the next order, he cast his glance out upon the bay, and there, not a hundred and fifty yards away, her spotless sails tense, her cordage humming, her immaculate flanks slipping easily through the waves, the water hissing and churning under her forefoot, clean, gleaming, dainty, and aristocratic, the Ridgeways yacht Petrel passed like a thing of life. Wilbur saw Nat Ridgeway himself at the wheel. Girls in smart gowns and young fellows in white ducks and yachting capsall friends of hiscrowded the decks. A little orchestra of musicians were reeling off a quickstep.
The popping of a cork and a gale of talk and laughter came to his ears. Wilbur stared at the picture, his face devoid of expression. The Petrel came ondrew nearerwas not a hundred feet away from the schooners stern. A strong swimmer, such as Wilbur, could cover the distance in a few strides. Two minutes ago Wilbur might have
Set your mainsl, came the bellow of Captain Kitchell. Clap on to your throat and peak halyards.
The Chinamen hurried aft.
Wilbur followed.
II. A NAUTICAL EDUCATION
In the course of the next few moments, while the little vessel was being got under way, and while the Ridgeways Petrel gleamed off into the blue distance, Wilbur made certain observations.
The name of the boat on which he found himself was the Bertha Millner. She was a two-topmast, 28-ton keel schooner, 40 feet long, carrying a large spread of sailmainsail, foresail, jib, flying-jib, two gaff-topsails, and a staysail. She was very dirty and smelt abominably of some kind of rancid oil. Her crew were Chinamen; there was no mate. But the cookhimself a Chinamanwho appeared from time to time at the door of the galley, a potato-masher in his hand, seemed to have some sort of authority over the hands. He acted in a manner as a go-between for the Captain and the crew, sometimes interpreting the formers orders, and occasionally giving one of his own.
Wilbur heard the Captain address him as Charlie. He spoke pigeon English fairly. Of the balance of the crewthe five ChinamenWilbur could make nothing. They never spoke, neither to Captain Kitchell, to Charlie, nor to each other; and for all the notice they took of Wilbur he might easily have been a sack of sand. Wilbur felt that his advent on the Bertha Millner was by its very nature an extraordinary event; but the absolute indifference of these brown-suited Mongols, the blankness of their flat, fat faces, the dulness of their slanting, fishlike eyes that never met his own or even wandered in his direction, was uncanny, disquieting. In what strange venture was he now to be involved, toward what unknown vortex was this new current setting, this current that had so suddenly snatched him from the solid ground of his accustomed life?
He told himself grimly that he was to have a free cruise up the bay, perhaps as far as Alviso; perhaps the Bertha Millner would even make the circuit of the bay before returning to San Francisco. He might be gone a week. Wilbur could already see the scare-heads of the daily papers the next morning, chronicling the disappearance of One of Societys Most Popular Members.
Thats well, yr throat halyards. Here, Lilee of the Vallee, give a couple of pulls on yr peak halyard purchase.
Wilbur stared at the Captain helplessly.
No can tell, hey? inquired Charlie from the galley. Pullum disa lope, sabe?
Wilbur tugged at the rope the cook indicated.
Thats well, yr peak halyard purchase, chanted Captain Kitchell.
Wilbur made the rope fast. The mainsail was set, and hung slatting and flapping in the wind. Next the forsail was set in much the same manner, and Wilbur was ordered to lay out on the jiboom and cast the gaskets off the jib. He lay out as best he could and cast off the gasketshe knew barely enough of yachting to understand an order here and thereand by the time he was back on the focsle head the Chinamen were at the jib halyard and hoisting away.
Thats well, yr jib halyards.
The Bertha Millner veered round and played off to the wind, tugging at her anchor.
Man yr windlass.
Wilbur and the crew jumped once more to the brakes.
Brake down, heave yr anchor to the cathead.
The anchor-chain, already taut, vibrated and then cranked through the hawse-holes as the hands rose and fell at the brakes. The anchor came home, dripping gray slime. A norwest wind filled the schooners sails, a strong ebb tide caught her underfoot.
Were off, muttered Wilbur, as the Bertha Millner heeled to the first gust.
But evidently the schooner was not bound up the bay.
Must be Vallejo or Benicia, then, hazarded Wilbur, as the sails grew tenser and the water rippled ever louder under the schooners forefoot. Maybe theyre going after hay or wheat.
The schooner was tacking, headed directly for Meiggss wharf. She came in closer and closer, so close that Wilbur could hear the talk of the fishermen sitting on the stringpieces. He had just made up his mind that they were to make a landing there, when
Stand by for stays, came the raucous bark of the Captain, who had taken on the heel. The sails slatted furiously as the schooner came about. Then the Bertha Millner caught the wind again and lay over quietly and contentedly to her work. The next tack brought the schooner close under Alcatraz. The sea became heavier, the breeze grew stiff and smelled of the outside ocean. Out beyond them to westward opened the Golden Gate, a bleak vista of gray-green water roughened with white-caps.