"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 astonishing performance, 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,
especial