I now began to wish I had not locked down the cover; I could have got out and walked ashore.  But it was childish to give way to foolish regrets; so I lay perfectly quiet, and yelled.  Presently I thought of my jack-knife.  By this time the ship was so water-logged as to be a little more stable.  This enabled me to get the knife from my pocket without upsetting more than six or eight times, and inspired hope.  Taking the whittle between my teeth, I turned over upon my stomach, and cut a hole through the bottom near the bow.  Turning back again, I awaited the result.  Most men would have awaited the result, I think, if they could not have got out.  For some time there was no result.  The ship was too deeply laden astern, where my feet were, and water will not run up hill unless it is paid to do it.  But when I called in all my faculties for a good earnest think, the weight of my intellect turned the scale.  It was like a cargo of pig-lead in the forecastle.  The water, which for nearly an hour I had kept down by drinking it as it rose about my lips, began to run out at the hole I had scuttled, faster than it could be admitted at the one in the stern; and in a few moments the bottom was so dry you might have lighted a match upon it, if you had been there, and obtained the captain’s permission.

[Illustration]

I was all right now.  I had got into San Pablo Bay, where it was all plain sailing.  If I could manage to keep off the horizon I should be somewhere before daylight.  But a new annoyance was in store for me.  The steamboats on these waters are constructed of very frail materials, and whenever one came into collision with my flotilla, she immediately sank.  This was most exasperating, for the piercing shrieks of the hapless crews and passengers prevented my getting any sleep.  Such disagreeable voices as these people had would have tortured an ear of corn.  I felt as if I would like to step out and beat them soft-headed with a club; though of course I had not the heart to do so while the padlock held fast.

The reader, if he is obliging, will remember that there was formerly an obstruction in the harbour of San Francisco, called Blossom Rock, which was some fathoms under water, but not fathoms enough to suit shipmasters.  It was removed by an engineer named Von Schmidt.  This person bored a hole in it, and sent down some men who gnawed out the whole interior, leaving the rock a mere shell.  Into this drawing-room suite were inserted thirty tons of powder, ten barrels of nitro-glycerine, and a woman’s temper.  Von Schmidt then put in something explosive, and corked up the opening, leaving a long wire hanging out.  When all these preparations were complete, the inhabitants of San Francisco came out to see the fun.  They perched thickly upon Telegraph Hill from base to summit; they swarmed innumerable upon the beach; the whole region was black with them.  All that day they waited, and came again the next.  Again they were