Well might he exclaim, for there, tied up to the dock, lay the
strangest looking launch I had ever seen. Not that it could be
called a launch, either, but it seemed to resemble a launch more
than any other kind of boat. It was seventy feet long, but so
narrow was it, and so bare of superstructure, that it appeared much
smaller than it really was. It was built wholly of steel, and was
painted black. Three smokestacks, a good distance apart and raking
well aft, arose in single file amidships; while the bow, long and
lean and sharp as a knife, plainly advertised that the boat was
made for speed. Passing under the stern, we read Streak, painted
in small white letters.

Charley and I were consumed with curiosity. In a few minutes we
were on board and talking with an engineer who was watching the
sunrise from the deck. He was quite willing to satisfy our
curiosity, and in a few minutes we learned that the Streak had come
in after dark from San Francisco; that this was what might be
called the trial trip; and that she was the property of Silas Tate,
a young mining millionaire of California, whose fad was high-speed
yachts. There was some talk about turbine engines, direct
application of steam, and the absence of pistons, rods, and
cranks,--all of which was beyond me, for I was familiar only with
sailing craft; but I did understand the last words of the engineer.

"Four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour, though you
wouldn't think it," he concluded proudly.

"Say it again, man! Say it again!" Charley exclaimed in an excited
voice.