He staggered about as though the wharf were rolling, and told us
his troubles, which were the troubles of the yacht. The only
rough-weather sailor aboard, the man on whom they all depended, had
been called back to San Francisco by a telegram, and they had
attempted to continue the cruise alone. The high wind and big seas
of San Pablo Bay had been too much for them; all hands were sick,
nobody knew anything or could do anything; and so they had run in
to the smelter either to desert the yacht or to get somebody to
bring it to Benicia. In short, did we know of any sailors who
would bring the yacht into Benicia?

Charley looked at me. The Reindeer was lying in a snug place. We
had nothing on hand in the way of patrol work till midnight. With
the wind then blowing, we could sail the yacht into Benicia in a
couple of hours, have several more hours ashore, and come back to
the smelter on the evening train.

"All right, captain," Charley said to the disconsolate yachtsman,
who smiled in sickly fashion at the title.

"I'm only the owner," he explained.

We rowed him aboard in much better style than he had come ashore,
and saw for ourselves the helplessness of the passengers. There
were a dozen men and women, and all of them too sick even to appear
grateful at our coming. The yacht was rolling savagely, broad on,
and no sooner had the owner's feet touched the deck than he
collapsed and joined, the others. Not one was able to bear a hand,
so Charley and I between us cleared the badly tangled running gear,
got up sail, and hoisted anchor.