cribable something proclaim the sailor, and though
Von Shmit can hardly say 'yes' in English, he looks the most likely man
of the three.

The Shipping-master, having concluded his business, steps aboard his
launch, leaving us with a full crew, to wait the weather clearing, and
the fair wind that would lift us down Channel.

* * * * *

Daybreak next morning shows promise of better weather, and a light
S.S.E. wind with a comparatively clear sky decides the Old Man to take
the North Channel for it. As soon as there is light enough to mark
their colours, a string of flags brings off our tug-boat from Princes
Pier, and we start to heave up the anchor. A stout coloured man sets
up a 'chantey' in a very creditable baritone, and the crew, sobered now
by the snell morning air, give sheet to the chorus.

'_Blow, boy-s, blow,--for Califor-ny, oh!_
_For there's lot's of gold, so I've been told,_
_On the banks--of Sa-cramen-to!_'

The towing-hawser is passed aboard, and the tug takes the weight off
the cable. The nigger having reeled off all he knows of 'Californy,' a
Dutchman sings lustily of 'Sally Brown.' Soon the Mate reports,
"Anchor's short, Sir," and gets the order to weigh. A few more
powerful heaves with the seaman-like poise between each--"_Spent my
mo-ney on Sa-lley Brown!_"--and the shout comes, "Anchor's a-weigh!"

Down comes the Blue Peter from the fore, whipping at shroud and
backstay in quick descent--our barque rides ground-free, the voyage
begun!

The light is broad over all now, and the Highland hills loom dark and
misty to the norr'ard. With a catch at the heart, we pass the
well-known places, slowly making way, as if the flood-tide were
striving still to hold us in our native waters. A Customs boat hails,
and asks of us, "Whither bound?" "'Frisco away!" we shout, and they
wave us a brief God-speed. Rounding the Cloch, we meet the coasting
steamers scurrying up the Firth.

"'Ow'd ye like t' be a stiy-at-'ome, splashin' abaht in ten fathoms,
like them blokes, eh?" the Cockney asks me, with a deep-water man's
contempt in his tone.

How indeed? Yearning eyes follow their glistening stern-wash as they
speed past, hot-foot for the river berths.

Tide has made now. A short period of slack water, and the ebb bears us
seaward, past the Cowal shore, glinting in the wintry sunlight, the
blue smoke in Dunoon valley curling upward to Kilbride Hill, past
Skelmorlie Buo