to ask French Pete a thousand questions; but just as the first was on his lips that worthy ordered him to go below and get some coffee and then to turn in.  He was followed shortly afterward by ’Frisco Kid, French Pete remaining at his lonely task of beating down the bay and out to sea.  Twice he heard the waves buffeted back from some flying forefoot, and once he saw a sail to leeward on the opposite tack, which luffed sharply and came about at sight of him.  But the darkness favored, and he heard no more of it—­perhaps because he worked into the wind closer by a point, and held on his way with a shaking after-leech.

Shortly after dawn, the two boys were called and came sleepily on deck.  The day had broken cold and gray, while the wind had attained half a gale.  Joe noted with astonishment the white tents of the quarantine station on Angel Island.  San Francisco lay a smoky blur on the southern horizon, while the night, still lingering on the western edge of the world, slowly withdrew before their eyes.  French Pete was just finishing a long reach into the Raccoon Straits, and at the same time studiously regarding a plunging sloop-yacht half a mile astern.

“Dey t’ink to catch ze Dazzler, eh?  Bah!” And he brought the craft in question about, laying a course straight for the Golden Gate.

The pursuing yacht followed suit.  Joe watched her a few moments.  She held an apparently parallel course to them, and forged ahead much faster.

“Why, at this rate they ’ll have us in no time!” he cried.

French Pete laughed.  “You t’ink so?  Bah!  Dey outfoot; we outpoint.  Dey are scared of ze wind; we wipe ze eye of ze wind.  Ah! you wait, you see.”

“They ’re traveling ahead faster,” ’Frisco Kid explained, “but we ’re sailing closer to the wind.  In the end we ’ll beat them, even if they have the nerve to cross the bar—­which I don’t think they have.  Look!  See!”

Ahead could be seen the great ocean surges, flinging themselves skyward and bursting into roaring caps of smother.  In the midst of it, now rolling her dripping bottom clear, now sousing her deck-load of lumber far above the guards, a coasting steam-schooner was lumbering drunkenly into port.  It was magnificent—­this battle between man and the elements.  Whatever timidity he had entertained fled away, and Joe’s nostrils began to dilate and his eyes to flash at the nearness of the impending struggle.

French Pete called for his oilskins and sou’wester, and Joe also was equipped with a spare suit.  Then he and ’Frisco Kid were sent below to lash and cleat the safe in place.  In the midst of this task Joe glanced at the firm-name, gilt-lettered on the face of it, and read:  “Bronson & Tate.”  Why, that was his father and his father’s partner.  That was their safe, their money!  ’Frisco Kid, nailing the last cleat on the floor of the cabin, looked up and followed his fascinated gaze.

“That ’s rough, is n’t it,” he whispered.  “Your father?”