“Did you notice the two men who were sitting at the middle table?” I asked him.

“Sure!” said he, shoving me my glass of beer.

“Know them?” I inquired.

“Never laid eyes on ’em before.  Old chap looked like a sort of corn doctor or corner spell-binder.  Other was probably one of these longshore abalone men.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, and dodged out again, leaving the beer untouched.

I cursed myself for a blunderer.  When I got to the street the two men had disappeared.  I should have shadowed the captain to his vessel.

The affair interested me greatly.  Apparently Dr. Schermerhorn was about to go on a long voyage.  I prided myself on being fairly up to date in regard to the plans of those who interested the public; and the public at that time was vastly interested in Dr. Schermerhorn.  I, in common with the rest of the world, had imagined him anchored safely in Philadelphia, immersed in chemical research.  Here he bobbed up at the other end of the continent, making shady bargains with obscure shipping captains, and paying a big premium for absolute secrecy.  It looked good.

Accordingly I was out early the next morning.  I had not much to go by; schooners are as plenty as tadpoles in San Francisco harbour.  However, I was sure I could easily recognise that falsetto voice; and I knew where the supplies were to be purchased.  Adams & Marsh are a large firm, and cautious.  I knew better than to make direct inquiries, or to appear in the salesroom.  But by hanging around the door of the shipping room I soon had track of the large orders to be sent that day.  In this manner I had no great difficulty in following a truck to Pier 10, nor to identify a consignment to Captain Ezra Selover as probably that of which I was in search.

The mate was in charge of the stowage, so I could not be quite sure.  Here, however, was a schooner—­of about a hundred and fifty tons burden.  I looked her over.

You’re all acquainted with the Laughing Lass and the perfection of her lines.  You have not known her under Captain Ezra Selover.  She was the cleanest ship I ever saw.  Don’t know how he accomplished it, with a crew of four and the cook; but he did.  The deck looked as though it had been holystoned every morning by a crew of jackies; the stays were whipped and tarred, the mast new-slushed, and every foot of running gear coiled down shipshape and Bristol fashion.  There was a good deal of brass about her; it shone like gold, and I don’t believe she owned an inch of paint that wasn’t either fresh or new-scrubbed.

I gazed for some time at this marvel.  It’s unusual enough anywhere, but aboard a California hooker it is little short of miraculous.  The crew had all turned up, apparently, and a swarm of stevedores were hustling every sort of provisions, supplies, stock, spars, lines and canvas down into the hold.  It was a rush job, and that mate was having his hands full.  I didn’t wonder at his language nor at his looks, both of which were somewhat mussed up.  Then almost at my elbow I heard that shrill falsetto squeal, and turned just in time to see the captain ascend the after gangplank.