“Try ze stick, Kid,” French Pete ordered.  “I t’ink it is about ze time.”

’Frisco Kid unlashed a long and slender pole from the top of the cabin, and, standing on the narrow deck amidships, plunged one end of it into the water and drove it straight down.

“About fifteen feet,” he said.

“What ze bottom?”

“Mud,” was the answer.

“Wait one while, den we try some more.”

Five minutes afterward the pole was plunged overside again.

“Two fathoms,” Joe answered—­“shells.”

French Pete rubbed his hands with satisfaction.  “Vaire good, vaire well,” he said.  “I hit ze ground every time.  You can’t fool-a ze old man; I tell you dat for sure.”

’Frisco Kid continued operating the pole and announcing the results, to the mystification of Joe, who could not comprehend their intimate knowledge of the bottom of the bay.

“Ten feet—­shells,” ’Frisco Kid went on in a monotonous voice. “’Leven feet—­shells.  Fourteen feet—­soft.  Sixteen feet—­mud.  No bottom.”

“Ah, ze channel,” said French Pete at this.

For a few minutes it was “No bottom”; and then, suddenly, came ’Frisco Kid’s cry:  “Eight feet—­hard!”

“Dat ‘ll do,” French Pete commanded.  “Run for’ard, you Sho, an’ let go ze jib.  You, Kid, get all ready ze hook.”

Joe found the jib-halyard and cast it off the pin, and, as the canvas fluttered down, came in hand over hand on the downhaul.

“Let ’er go!” came the command, and the anchor dropped into the water, carrying but little chain after it.

’Frisco Kid threw over plenty of slack and made fast.  Then they furled the sails, made things tidy, and went below and to bed.

It was six o’clock when Joe awoke and went out into the cockpit to look about.  Wind and sea had sprung up, and the Dazzler was rolling and tossing and now and again fetching up on her anchor-chain with a savage jerk.  He was forced to hold on to the boom overhead to steady himself.  It was a gray and leaden day, with no signs of the rising sun, while the sky was obscured by great masses of flying clouds.

Joe sought for the land.  A mile and a half away it lay—­a long, low stretch of sandy beach with a heavy surf thundering upon it.  Behind appeared desolate marshlands, while far beyond towered the Contra Costa Hills.

Changing the direction of his gaze, Joe was startled by the sight of a small sloop rolling and plunging at her anchor not a hundred yards away.  She was nearly to windward, and as she swung off slightly he read her name on the stern, the Flying Dutchman, one of the boats he had seen lying at the city wharf in Oakland.  A little to the left of her he discovered the Ghost, and beyond were half a dozen other sloops at anchor.

“What I tell you?”

Joe looked quickly over his shoulder.  French Pete had come out of the cabin and was triumphantly regarding the spectacle.