from the boat on
business of his own, and, instead of criticising our stroke and telling
us what rotten rowers we were, as was his wont, he busied himself with
letters and papers. We put off to the ship in haste, and soon the news
went round that we were going up-river to Port Costa, to load for home.
Old Joe Niven was the medium through whom all news filtered from the
cabin, and from him we had the particulars even down to the amount of
the freight. We felt galled that a German barque, which had gone up a
week before, was getting two and twopence-ha'penny more; but we took
consolation in the thought of what a fine crow we would have over the
'Torreador's,' who were only loading at forty-five and sixpence, direct
to Hull.

On board we only mustered hands enough to do the ordinary harbour work,
and raising the heavy anchors was a task beyond us; so at daybreak next
morning we rowed round the ships to collect a crew. The other Captains
had promised our Old Man a hand, here and there, and when we pulled
back we had men enough, lusty and willing, to kedge her up a hill.

There was mist on the water when we started to 'clear hawse'--the
thick, clammy mist that comes before a warm day. About us bells
clattered on the ships at anchor, and steamers went slowly by with a
hiss of waste steam that told of a ready hand on the levers. Overhead,
the sky was bright with the promise of a glorious day, but with no mind
to lift the pall from the water, it looked ill for a ready passage. We
had four turns of a foul hawse to clear (the track of a week's calms),
and our windlass was of a very ancient type, but our scratch crew
worked well and handy, and we were ready for the road when the screw
tug _Escort_ laid alongside and lashed herself up to our quarter. They
tow that way on the Pacific Coast--the wily ones know the advantage of
having a ship's length in front of them to brush away the 'snags.'

A light breeze took the mist ''way down under,' and we broke the
weather anchor out with the rousing chorus of an old sea song:

Old Storm-along, he's dead a-an' gone,
(_To my way-ay, Storm-alo-ong;_)
O-old Storm-along, he's dead a-an' gone,
(_Aye! Aye! Aye! Mister Storm-along._)

Some friends of the Captain had boarded us from the tug, eager for the
novelty of a trip up-river in a real Cape Horner. One elderly lady was
so charmed by our 'chantey,' that she wanted the Captain to make us
sing it over again. She wo