happened along.

Sunday came. The challenge had been bruited abroad, and the
fishermen and seafaring folk of Benicia turned out to a man,
crowding Steamboat Wharf till it looked like the grand stand at a
football match. Charley and I had been sceptical, but the fact of
the crowd convinced us that there was something in Demetrios
Contos's dare.

In the afternoon, when the sea-breeze had picked up in strength,
his sail hove into view as he bowled along before the wind. He
tacked a score of feet from the wharf, waved his hand theatrically,
like a knight about to enter the lists, received a hearty cheer in
return, and stood away into the Straits for a couple of hundred
yards. Then he lowered sail, and, drifting the boat sidewise by
means of the wind, proceeded to set his net. He did not set much
of it, possibly fifty feet; yet Charley and I were thunderstruck at
the man's effrontery. We did not know at the time, but we learned
afterward, that the net he used was old and worthless. It COULD
catch fish, true; but a catch of any size would have torn it to
pieces.

Charley shook his head and said:

"I confess, it puzzles me. What if he has out only fifty feet? He
could never get it in if we once started for him. And why does he
come here anyway, flaunting his law-breaking in our faces? Right
in our home town, too."

Charley's voice took on an aggrieved tone, and he continued for