The tug Sea Queen, chartered by Bronson & Tate, has returned from a fruitless cruise outside the Heads.  No news of value could be obtained concerning the pirates who so daringly carried off their safe at San Andreas last Tuesday night.  The lighthouse-keeper at the Farralones mentions having sighted the two sloops Wednesday morning, clawing offshore in the teeth of the gale.  It is supposed by shipping men that they perished in the storm with, their ill-gotten treasure.  Rumor has it that, in addition to the ten thousand dollars in gold, the safe contained papers of great importance.

When Joe had read this he felt a great relief.  It was evident no one had been killed at San Andreas the night of the robbery, else there would have been some comment on it in the paper.  Nor, if they had had any clue to his own whereabouts, would they have omitted such a striking bit of information.

At the depot in San Francisco the curious onlookers were surprised to see a boy clad conspicuously in sea-boots and sou’wester hail a cab and dash away.  But Joe was in a hurry.  He knew his father’s hours, and was fearful lest he should not catch him before he went to lunch.

The office-boy scowled at him when he pushed open the door and asked to see Mr. Bronson; nor could the head clerk, when summoned by this disreputable intruder, recognize him.

“Don’t you know me, Mr. Willis?”

Mr. Willis looked a second time.  “Why, it ’s Joe Bronson!  Of all things under the sun, where did you drop from?  Go right in.  Your father ’s in there.”

Mr. Bronson stopped dictating to his stenographer and looked up.  “Hello!  Where have you been?” he said.

“To sea,” Joe answered demurely, not sure of just what kind of a reception he was to get, and fingering his sou’wester nervously.

“Short trip, eh?  How did you make out?”

“Oh, so-so.”  He had caught the twinkle in his father’s eye and knew that it was all clear sailing.  “Not so bad—­er—­that is, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Well, not exactly that; rather, it might have been worse, while it could n’t have been better.”

“That ’s interesting.  Sit down.”  Then, turning to the stenographer:  “You may go, Mr. Brown, and—­hum!—­I won’t need you any more to-day.”

It was all Joe could do to keep from crying, so kindly and naturally had his father received him, making him feel at once as if not the slightest thing uncommon had occurred.  It seemed as if he had just returned from a vacation, or, man-grown, had come back from some business trip.

“Now go ahead, Joe.  You were speaking to me a moment ago in conundrums, and you have aroused my curiosity to a most uncomfortable degree.”

Whereupon Joe sat down and told what had happened—­all that had happened—­from Monday night to that very moment.  Each little incident he related,—­every detail,—­not forgetting his conversations with ’Frisco Kid nor his plans concerning him.  His face flushed and he was carried away with the excitement of the narrative, while Mr. Bronson was almost as eager, urging him on whenever he slackened his pace, but otherwise remaining silent.