ndered when he told her that that was one
thing he could not do. With the rare and privileged sight of frocks on
the poop, there was a lot of talk about who should go to the wheel.
Jones worked himself into it, and laid aft in a clean rig when the Old
Man called for a hand to the wheel. There he made the most of it, and
hung gracefully over the spokes with his wrists turned out to show the
tattoo marks.

The skipper of the tug came aboard our ship to pilot up the river, and
he directed the movements of his own vessel from our poop deck. We
passed under the guns of rocky Alcatraz, and stood over to the wooded
slopes and vineyards of Saucilito, where many 'laid-up' ships were
lying at the buoys, with upper yards down and huge ballast booms lashed
alongside. Here we turned sharply to the norrard and bore up the broad
bosom of Sacramento--the river that sailormen make songs about, the
river that flows over a golden bed. Dull, muddy water flowing swiftly
seawards; straight rip in the channel, and a race where the high banks
are; a race that the Greek fishermen show holy pictures to, when the
springs are flowing!

With us, the tide was light enough, and our Pilot twisted her about
with the skill and nonchalance of a master hand. One of our
passengers, a young woman who had enthused over everything, from the
shark's tail on the spanker-boom end ("Waal--I never!") to the curl of
the bo'sun's whiskers ("Jest real sweet!"), seemed greatly interested
at the frequent orders to the steersman.

"Sa-ay, Pilot!" she said, "Ah guess yew must know every rock 'bout
hyar?"

"Wa-al, no, Miss, ah kyan't say 's Ah dew," answered Palinurus; "but Ah
reckon tew know whar th' deep wa-r-r is!"

As we approached the shallows at the head of San Pablo Bay, the Old Man
expressed an opinion as to the lack of water, and the Pilot again
provided a jest for the moment.

"Oh, that's awl right, Cap.; she's only drawin' twelve feet, 'n Ah kin
tak' 'r over a damp meadow 'n this trim!"

We met a big stern-wheel ferry bound down from Benicia with a load of
freight wagons. She looked like an important junction adrift.
Afterwards we saw a full-rigged ship towing down, and when near we made
her out to be the _Torreador_, ready for sea. This was a great
disappointment to us, for we had looked forward to being with her at
Port Costa. Now, our long-dreamt-of boat-race was off (with our boat's
crew in first-class trim, too!), and amid the cheering as