The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ It’s grit that tells.”

      When it came to pedigree—which Lynda declared did not count—Jim knew his forebears to be as good as those of those of the Whitings and the Fosters. He had seen the selvage edge of life, and Kitty and Newton the softer nap, that was all. And Kitty’s life had not been without its reverses; had now its present sorrow that she hid under the bright cloak of courage. How she had taken up with business and made a success of it; what a life partner she would make! Too sterling, he could not help but feel, for the airy, ease-loving happy-go-lucky Newton.

      It was Jim’s idea to try and get the vessel they needed from one of the yacht clubs of San Francisco Bay, rather than attempt to purchase a commercial vessel. Those of the latter type likely to be available would be old hulks moored and half rotting over in Oakland Creek. The war had taken all bottoms that were any good. The Alaska Packing Company’s northern fleet consisted of sailing ships; there were scow-bottomed schooners that plied up the Sacramento River and other waterways connected with the bay, but outside these, old hulks and pleasure craft, everything was steam. But he felt sure that on the Pacific, as on the Atlantic Coast, there would be people willing to dispose of their yachts, or charter them. Fortunes had been turned topsy-turvy during the war. Those who had made money were not the kind who understood yachting or looked upon it as a pastime. Those who had lost, on the other hand, were that type of the comparatively leisured class. Moreover, a yacht of the right size and engine power, if they could find out, would be built for comfort aft, and he had the two women to consider.

      Newton Foster had brought along letters from his father to business friends. These letters would undoubtedly act as an open sesame to the clubs of the city, and through them to the San Francisco and Corinthian yacht clubs, whose quarters were, as Jim knew, across the bay at Sausalito and Belvedere. But Jim relied upon the advertisements he might read or insert.

      Arrived in the city, they went to the Palace Hotel where rooms were already reserved for them. It was late afternoon, too late for Newton to present his letters. He proposed a theatre and they went, but no one enjoyed much of the play. They were on the threshold of adventure and eager to step across. Kitty Whiting’s unrest showed in her eyes, in flashes of absent-mindedness. She had not been sleeping since they left Foxfield, Lynda Warner told Jim. Next morning Newton busied himself with his introductions. He was also going, he said, to get hold of all the literature he could concerning the South Seas.

      “Not fiction stuff,” he announced. “Travel. We’ll have to read on the trip to kill time. And I wouldn’t wonder if I came back with news of just the boat we want.”

      There were several advertisements in the papers for the sale of launches and sloops, but none that offered anything suitable. Jim saw disappointment in Kitty Whiting’s face, and for a second saw them failing to get anything at all; his suggestions discredited at the outset; himself looking like a fool stripped of all pretense of knowledge.

      “I’m going to put ads in the Chronicle, Examiner and Bulletin,” he said. She nodded and gave him a look that fired his imagination.

      “I know you’ll get one,” she said. “But the seconds seem like hours and the hours like weeks. Now that we have actually started—it seems to me as if dad was waiting over there eating his heart out for the sight of a sail, waiting, waiting, and growing old. He isn’t a young man, my daddy, and I want—I want—”

      Her lips quivered; her eyes were moist with tears; she gave a pitifully twisted, brave little smile. Right then Jim would have charged through a regiment of devils for her sake, wished he could. Something of it showed in his look, for she said thank you before he answered her at all.

      “I’ll get you one, if I have to turn pirate. It might he a good idea if we went across to Sausalito and then over to Belvedere. There is sure to be someone round the clubhouses. The stewards or the boat-tenders would be likely to know of anything that might be available.” Kitty’s face brightened immediately and she dragged the willing Lynda off to dress. Within the hour they were on the Sausalito ferry, ploughing across toward the strait of the Golden Gate, the loom of Mount Tamalpais ahead of them. The steward of the San Francisco Yacht Club forgot house rules when he saw the ladies and heard Jim’s question, recognizing him immediately for a man of the sea and one who knew blue water.

      “A power schooner?” he said, a little doubtfully. “I don’t know. There’s one in the fleet, the Seamew, built in the East, Gloucester fisherman type. She can outsail anything round here if there’s any sort of weather, and she’s got an engine in her. Her owner was a bluewater man. Name of Rickard. Never more than mate, I understand. But he struck oil, or oil was struck for him and he came into a fortune. First thing he wanted a yacht and had this built. Sailed her round himself—plumb round the Horn, just to say it could be done these days. And they say—” the steward sank his voice to a confidential whisper—“they say he bucko’d his crew so they near mutinied. They quit, anyway, and he had to get others. He’s always short-handed. He’s a visiting member here—we exchange courtesies with a lot of clubs—or I wouldn’t be discussing him, you understand. I don’t know if he’d sell her outright, or even charter her, but I heard him say he was sick of her. Fact is, he don’t get along first rate with all the members. We do most of our racing inside the bay, and he laughs at us for bein’ mollycoddles. And he’s got a professional crew, you see, whereas we are all amateurs—strictly.

      “There’s one or two rumors he’s going to be married to a widow. He’s willing enough, I fancy, and maybe his oil stock looks good to her—begging your pardon, ladies. The point I’m making is that he’s always with her and that she hates yachting. Blows her hair about a bit too much, perhaps,” said the steward with fine scorn.

      “If you could arrange a charter for us,” said Jim, “we should be pleased to allow you the usual agent’s commission.” The steward touched his cap visor.

      “Thank you, sir. I’ll show you the Seamew if you’ll come through to the float. I know the caretaker pretty well. I think I could venture to take you off.”

      “I wouldn’t want to do that,” said Kitty. “It’s like walking into a stranger’s house.”

      “I’m sure Mr. Rickard wouldn’t mind, miss. Easy enough to find out. He’s got a place over here for the summer. I’ll telephone him if you like. He’s proud of the boat, you see, and always showing people over it. There she lies. A beauty, all right.”

      They saw the Seamew, black of hull, with a fine gold stripe winking along her run, spoon-bowed, overhung of stern, sweet of line, a typical Gloucester fisherman model designed for speed and endurance; the type that can come smashing home with every inch of canvas set, and hold deep packed with cod through a gale that makes many a deepwater skipper shorten sail and crawl to windward for open water. All the canvas was stowed aboard the Seamew, but it did not take much for Jim to imagine her with topsails full, main and fore, jumbo and jib, fisherman’s staysail set between the masts, the sea foaming at her entry, creaming along her run, fanning out in ivory traceries on the green jade of the sea in her wake. Here was no toy, but a ship after his own heart, capable of sailing the seven seas, not needing a large crew to handle her, but comfortable in calm or seaway for all aboard. And she had an engine, almost a necessity in the South Seas, where currents are strong and wind capricious.

      Brasswork well polished blinked here and there along her deck. Even at that distance they could tell she was shipshape, controlled by a man who might be a bit of a tyrant with his crew, but knew how to treat a proper vessel.

      Jim’s face glowed with approval. The steward had gone to his telephone. Kitty watched Lyman’s face, unconsciously reflecting its approval. Lynda Warner seemed more doubtful.

      “A little small, isn’t she,” she asked, “for a long СКАЧАТЬ