“But how did you get in?” I asked.  “You were once an outsider like your neighbours, I suppose?”

“I took hold of that thing, Loudon, and just studied it up,” he replied.  “It took my fancy; it was so romantic, and then I saw there was boodle in the thing; and I figured on the business till no man alive could give me points.  Nobody knew I had an eye on wrecks till one fine morning I dropped in upon Douglas B. Longhurst in his den, gave him all the facts and figures, and put it to him straight:  ’Do you want me in this ring? or shall I start another?’ He took half an hour, and when I came back, ‘Pink,’ says he, ‘I’ve put your name on.’  The first time I came to the top, it was that Moody racket; now it’s the Flying Scud.”

Whereupon Pinkerton, looking at his watch, uttered an exclamation, made a hasty appointment with myself for the doors of the Merchants’ Exchange, and fled to examine manifests and interview the skipper.  I finished my cigarette with the deliberation of a man at the end of many picnics; reflecting to myself that of all forms of the dollar hunt, this wrecking had by far the most address to my imagination.  Even as I went down town, in the brisk bustle and chill of the familiar San Francisco thoroughfares, I was haunted by a vision of the wreck, baking so far away in the strong sun, under a cloud of sea-birds; and even then, and for no better reason, my heart inclined towards the adventure.  If not myself, something that was mine, some one at least in my employment, should voyage to that ocean-bounded pin-point and descend to that deserted cabin.

Pinkerton met me at the appointed moment, pinched of lip and more than usually erect of bearing, like one conscious of great resolves.

“Well?” I asked.

“Well,” said he, “it might be better, and it might be worse.  This Captain Trent is a remarkably honest fellow—­one out of a thousand.  As soon as he knew I was in the market, he owned up about the rice in so many words.  By his calculation, if there’s thirty mats of it saved, it’s an outside figure.  However, the manifest was cheerier.  There’s about five thousand dollars of the whole value in silks and teas and nut-oils and that, all in the lazarette, and as safe as if it was in Kearney Street.  The brig was new coppered a year ago.  There’s upwards of a hundred and fifty fathom away-up chain.  It’s not a bonanza, but there’s boodle in it; and we’ll try it on.”

It was by that time hard on ten o’clock, and we turned at once into the place of sale.  The Flying Scud, although so important to ourselves, appeared to attract a very humble share of popular attention.  The auctioneer was surrounded by perhaps a score of lookers-on, big fellows, for the most part, of the true Western build, long in the leg, broad in the shoulder, and adorned (to a plain man’s taste) with needless finery.  A jaunty, ostentatious comradeship prevailed.  Bets were flying, and nicknames.  “The boys” (as they would