ark's abandoned, an' I says she is, she's ours. I'm out for
anything that there's stuff in. I guess I'm more of a beach-comber by
nature than anything else. If she's abandoned she belongs to us. To 'll
with this coolie game. We'll go beach-combin', you and I. We'll board
that bark and work her into the nearest port--San Diego, I guess--and
get the salvage on her if we have to swim in her. Are you with me?" he
held out his hand. The man was positively trembling from head to
heel. It was impossible to resist the excitement of the situation, its
novelty--the high crow's nest of the schooner, the keen salt air, the
Chinamen grouped far below, the indigo of the warm ocean, and out yonder
the forsaken derelict, rolling her light hull till the garboard streak
flashed in the sun.

"Well, of course, I'm with you, Cap," exclaimed Wilbur, gripping
Kitchell's hand. "When there's thirty thousand to be had for the asking
I guess I'm a 'na'chel bawn' beach-comber myself."

"Now, nothing about this to the coolies."

"But how will you make out with your owners, the Six Companies? Aren't
you bound to bring the 'Bertha' in?"

"Rot my owners!" exclaimed Kitchell. "I ain't a skipper of no oil-boat
any longer. I'm a beach-comber." He fixed the wallowing bark with
glistening eyes. "Gawd strike me," he murmured, "ain't she a daisy? It's
a little Klondike. Come on, son."

The two went down the ratlines, and Kitchell ordered a couple of the
hands into the dory that had been rowing astern. He and Wilbur followed.
Charlie was left on board, with directions to lay the schooner to. The
dory flew over the water, Wilbur setting the stroke. In a few moments
she was well up with the bark. Though a larger boat than the "Bertha
Millner," she was rolling in lamentable fashion, and every laboring
heave showed her bottom incrusted with barnacles and seaweed.

Her fore and main tops'ls and to'gallants'ls were set, as also were her
lower stays'ls and royals. But the braces seemed to have parted, and
the yards were swinging back and forth in their ties. The spanker was
brailed up, and the spanker boom thrashed idly over the poop as the bark
rolled and rolled and rolled. The mainmast was working in its shoe,
the rigging and backstays sagged. An air of abandonment, of unspeakable
loneliness, of abomination hung about her. Never had Wilbur seen
anything more utterly alone. Within three lengths the Captain rose in
his place and shouted:

"Bark ahoy!" There