the Snark did not sail Sunday morning at eleven. The little old man
was still in charge, and he said no. And Charmian and I walked out
on an opposite wharf and took consolation in the Snark's wonderful
bow and thought of all the gales and typhoons it would proudly
punch.

"A bourgeois trick," I said to Charmian, speaking of Mr. Sellers and
his libel; "a petty trader's panic. But never mind; our troubles
will cease when once we are away from this and out on the wide
ocean."

And in the end we sailed away, on Tuesday morning, April 23, 1907.
We started rather lame, I confess. We had to hoist anchor by hand,
because the power transmission was a wreck. Also, what remained of
our seventy-horse-power engine was lashed down for ballast on the
bottom of the Snark. But what of such things? They could be fixed
in Honolulu, and in the meantime think of the magnificent rest of
the boat! It is true, the engine in the launch wouldn't run, and
the life-boat leaked like a sieve; but then they weren't the Snark;
they were mere appurtenances. The things that counted were the
water-tight bulkheads, the solid planking without butts, the bath-
room devices--they were the Snark. And then there was, greatest of
all, that noble, wind-punching bow.

We sailed out through the Golden Gate and set our course south
toward that part of the Pacific where we could hope to pick up with
the north-east trades. And right away things began to happen. I
had calculated that youth was the stuff for a voyage like that of
the Snark, and I had taken three youths--the engineer, the cook, and
the cabin-boy. My calculation was only two-thirds OFF; I had