easy and sure."

Joe dropped the centerboard and returned, to be stationed at the jib-sheet.

"Hard a-lee!" 'Frisco Kid cried, throwing the tiller down, and following
it with his body. "Cast off! That 's right. Now lend a hand on the
main-sheet!"

Together, hand over hand, they came in on the reefed mainsail. Joe began
to warm up with the work. The _Dazzler_ turned on her heel like a
race-horse, and swept into the wind, her canvas snarling and her sheets
slatting like hail.

"Draw down the jib-sheet!"

Joe obeyed, and, the head-sail filling, forced her off on the other tack.
This manoeuver had turned French Pete's bunk from the lee to the weather
side, and rolled him out on the cabin floor, where he lay in a drunken
stupor.

'Frisco Kid, with his back against the tiller and holding the sloop off
that it might cover their previous course, looked at him with an expression
of disgust, and muttered: "The dog! We could well go to the bottom, for
all he 'd care or do!"

Twice they tacked, trying to go over the same ground; and then Joe
discovered the skiff bobbing to windward in the star-lit darkness.

"Plenty of time," 'Frisco Kid cautioned, shooting the _Dazzler_ into the
wind toward it and gradually losing headway. "Now!"

Joe leaned over the side, grasped the trailing painter, and made it fast
to the bitt. Then they tacked ship again and started on their way. Joe
still felt ashamed for the trouble he had caused; but 'Frisco Kid quickly
put him at ease.

"Oh, that 's nothing," he said. "Everybody does that when they 're
beginning. Now some men forget all about the trouble they had in
learning, and get mad when a greeny makes a mistake. I never do. Why,
I remember--"

And then he told Joe of many of the mishaps which fell to him when, as
a little lad, he first went on the water, and of some of the severe
punishments for the same which were measured out to him. He had passed
the running end of a lanyard over the tiller-neck, and as they talked
they sat side by side and close against each other in the shelter of
the cockpit.

"What place is that?" Joe asked, as they flew by a lighthouse blinking
from a rocky headland.

"Goat Island. They 've got a naval training station for boys over on
the other side, and a torpedo-magazine. There 's jolly good fishing,
too--rock-cod. We 'll pass to the lee of it, and make across, and
anchor in the shelter of Angel Island. There 's a quarantine station
there. Then when Fren