"That's all right," Charley said in a low voice, which I only could hear. "I'm mighty glad it's not us that's laughing first. We'll save our laugh to the end, eh, lad?"He clapped a hand on my shoulder as he finished, but it seemed to me that there was more determination than hope in his voice.
It would have been possible for us to secure the aid of United States marshals and board the English ship, backed by Government authority. But the instructions of the Fish Commission were to the effect that the patrolmen should avoid complications, and this one, did we call on the higher powers, might well end in a pretty international tangle.
The second week of the siege drew to its close, and there was no sign of change in the situation. On the morning of the fourteenth day the change came, and it came in a guise as unexpected and startling to us as it was to the men we were striving to capture.
Charley and I, after our customary night vigil by the side of the Lancashire Queen, rowed into the Solana Wharf.
"Hello!" cried Charley, in surprise. "In the name of reason and common sense, what is that? Of all unmannerly craft did you ever see the like?"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 SanFrancisco; 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.
"Four thousand horse-power and forty-five miles an hour," the engineer repeated, grinning good-naturedly.
"Where's the owner?" was Charley's next question. "Is there any way I can speak to him?"The engineer shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. He's asleep, you see."At that moment a young man in blue uniform came on deck farther aft and stood regarding the sunrise.
"There he is, that's him, that's Mr. Tate," said the engineer.
Charley walked aft and spoke to him, and while he talked earnestly the young man listened with an amused expression on his face. He must have inquired about the depth of water close in to the shore at Turner's Shipyard, for I could see Charley making gestures and explaining. A few minutes later he came back in high glee.
