and a couple of deck-hands disentangling the shreds of his net from
the paddle-wheel. In short, after he had gone to sleep, his
fisherman's riding light had gone out, and the Apache had run over
his net. Though torn pretty well to pieces, the net in some way
still remained foul, and he had had a thirty-mile tow out of his
course.

Charley nudged me with his elbow. I grasped his thought on the
instant, but objected:

"We can't charter a steamboat."

"Don't intend to," he rejoined. "But let's run over to Turner's
Shipyard. I've something in my mind there that may be of use to
us."

And over we went to the shipyard, where Charley led the way to the
Mary Rebecca, lying hauled out on the ways, where she was being
cleaned and overhauled. She was a scow-schooner we both knew well,
carrying a cargo of one hundred and forty tons and a spread of
canvas greater than other schooner on the bay.

"How d'ye do, Ole," Charley greeted a big blue-shirted Swede who
was greasing the jaws of the main gaff with a piece of pork rind.

Ole grunted, puffed away at his pipe, and went on greasing. The
captain of a bay schooner is supposed to work with his hands just
as well as the men.

Ole Ericsen verified Charley's conjecture that the Mary Rebecca, as