“Tut!  Tut!” cried Rubery, “let us have no croaking.”  But at two o’clock, the navigator had not shown his face.  They could not sail without a captain.  Wearily they went below and left a sentinel on watch.  He was a young man who had eaten heavily and drunk to even more excess.  For a time he paced the deck conscientiously.  Then he sat down, leaned against a spar and smoked.  After a while the pipe fell from his listless fingers.

* * * * *

“Ahoy, schooner Chapman!”

The sleeping sentinel stirred languidly.  He stretched himself, yawned, rose in splendid leisure.  Then a shout broke from him.  Like a frightened rabbit he dived through the hatchway, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“The police!  The police!”

Harpending was up first.  Pell mell, Rubery and Greathouse followed.  A couple of hundred yards away they looked into the trained guns of the Federal warship Cyane.  Several boatloads of officers and marines were leaving her side.  From the San Francisco waterfront a police tug bore down on the Chapman.

Greathouse stumbled back into the cabin.  “Quick, destroy the evidence,” he shouted.

CHAPTER LIX

THE COMSTOCK FURORE

Press reports gave full and wide sensation to the capture of the “Chapman.”  Chief Lees took every credit for the thwarting of a “Plot of Southern Pirates” who “Conspired to Prey Upon the Golden Galleons From California.”  Thus the headlines put it.  And Benito was relieved to find no mention of himself.  Harpending he knew and liked, despite his Southern sympathies; Rubery he had met; an English lad, high-spirited and well connected.  In fact, John Bright soon had his errant nephew out of jail.  And when, a few months later, Harpending and Greathouse were released, Benito deemed the story happily ended.  He heard nothing from McTurpin.  No doubt the fellow was dead.

That troublesome proclivity of wooing chance was uppermost again in Windham’s mind.  It was only natural perhaps, for all of San Francisco gambled now in mining stocks.  The brokers swarmed like bees along Montgomery street; every window had its shelf of quartz and nuggets interspersed with pictures of the “workings” at Virginia City.  It was Nevada now that held the treasure-seeker’s eye.

Within a year it had produced six millions.  Scores of miners staked their claims upon or near the Comstock lode and most of them sought capital in San Francisco.  Washerwomen, bankers, teamsters—­every class was bitten by the microbe of hysterical investment.  Some had made great fortunes; none apparently thus far had lost.

In front of Flood and O’Brien’s saloon a hand fell heartily upon Benito’s shoulder.  “Come in and have a drink,” James Lick invited.

Lick had “made a pile” of late.  He was building a big hotel on Montgomery street; was recognized as one of San Francisco’s financiers.  He took Benito by the arm.  “We’ve got to celebrate.  I’ve made ten thousand on my Ophir shares.  Carrying any mining stock, Benito?”