Time was heavy on my hands.  I sat on the dock and talked it over with Nickey the Greek, another idle oyster pirate.  “Let’s go,” said I, and Nickey was willing.  He was “broke.”  I possessed fifty cents and a small skiff.  The former I invested and loaded into the latter in the form of crackers, canned corned beef, and a ten-cent bottle of French mustard. (We were keen on French mustard in those days.) Then, late in the afternoon, we hoisted our small spritsail and started.  We sailed all night, and next morning, on the first of a glorious flood-tide, a fair wind behind us, we came booming up the Carquinez Straits to Port Costa.  There lay the stolen boat, not twenty-five feet from the wharf.  We ran alongside and doused our little spritsail.  I sent Nickey forward to lift the anchor, while I began casting off the gaskets.

A man ran out on the wharf and hailed us.  It was the constable.  It suddenly came to me that I had neglected to get a written authorization from Dinny McCrea to take possession of his boat.  Also, I knew that constable wanted to charge at least twenty-five dollars in fees for capturing the boat from Whiskey Bob and subsequently taking care of it.  And my last fifty cents had been blown in for corned beef and French mustard, and the reward was only ten dollars anyway.  I shot a glance forward to Nickey.  He had the anchor up-and-down and was straining at it.  “Break her out,” I whispered to him, and turned and shouted back to the constable.  The result was that he and I were talking at the same time, our spoken thoughts colliding in mid-air and making gibberish.

The constable grew more imperative, and perforce I had to listen.  Nickey was heaving on the anchor till I thought he’d burst a blood-vessel.  When the constable got done with his threats and warnings, I asked him who he was.  The time he lost in telling me enabled Nickey to break out the anchor.  I was doing some quick calculating.  At the feet of the constable a ladder ran down the dock to the water, and to the ladder was moored a skiff.  The oars were in it.  But it was padlocked.  I gambled everything on that padlock.  I felt the breeze on my cheek, saw the surge of the tide, looked at the remaining gaskets that confined the sail, ran my eyes up the halyards to the blocks and knew that all was clear, and then threw off all dissimulation.

“In with her!” I shouted to Nickey, and sprang to the gaskets, casting them loose and thanking my stars that Whiskey Bob had tied them in square-knots instead of “grannies.”

The constable had slid down the ladder and was fumbling with a key at the padlock.  The anchor came aboard and the last gasket was loosed at the same instant that the constable freed the skiff and jumped to the oars.

“Peak-halyards!” I commanded my crew, at the same time swinging on to the throat-halyards.  Up came the sail on the run.  I belayed and ran aft to the tiller.

“Stretch her!” I shouted to Nickey at the peak.  The constable was just reaching for our stern.  A puff of wind caught us, and we shot away.  It was great.  If I’d had a black flag, I know I’d have run it up in triumph.  The constable stood up in the skiff, and paled the glory of the day with the vividness of his language.  Also, he wailed for a gun.  You see, that was another gamble we had taken.