“I’m not wanting to dictate to you， lad，” Charley said；“but I’m very much against your making a last raid. You’vegone safely through rough times with rough men， and itwould be a shame to have something happen to you at thevery end.”
“But how can I get out of making a last raid？” Idemanded， with the cocksureness of youth. “There alwayshas to be a last， you know， to anything.”
Charley crossed his legs， leaned back， and consideredthe problem. “Very true. But why not call the capture ofDemetrios Contos the last？ You’re back from it safe andsound and hearty， for all your good wetting， and—and—”
His voice broke and he could not speak for a moment. “AndI could never forgive myself if anything happened to younow.”
I laughed at Charley’s fears while I gave in to the claimsof his affection， and agreed to consider the last raid alreadyperformed. We had been together for two years， and nowI was leaving the fish patrol in order to go back and finishmy education. I had earned and saved money to put methrough three years at the high school， and though thebeginning of the term was several months away， I intendeddoing a lot of studying for the entrance examinations.
My belongings were packed snugly in a sea-chest， and Iwas all ready to buy my ticket and ride down on the trainto Oakland， when Neil Partington arrived in Benicia. TheReindeer was needed immediately for work far down onthe Lower Bay， and Neil said he intended to run straight forOakland. As that was his home and as I was to live with hisfamily while going to school， he saw no reason， he said， whyI should not put my chest aboard and come along.
So the chest went aboard， and in the middle of theafternoon we hoisted the Reindeer’s big mainsail and castoff. It was tantalizing fall weather. The sea-breeze， whichhad blown steadily all summer， was gone， and in its placewere capricious winds and murky skies which made thetime of arriving anywhere extremely problematical. Westarted on the first of the ebb， and as we slipped down theCarquinez Straits， I looked my last for some time uponBenicia and the bight at Turner’s Shipyard， where we hadbesieged the Lancashire Queen， and had captured BigAlec， the King of the Greeks. And at the mouth of theStraits I looked with not a little interest upon the spotwhere a few days before I should have drowned but forthe good that was in the nature of Demetrios Contos.
A great wall of fog advanced across San Pablo Bay tomeet us， and in a few minutes the Reindeer was runningblindly through the damp obscurity. Charley， who wassteering， seemed to have an instinct for that kind of work.
How he did it， he himself confessed that he did not know；but he had a way of calculating winds， currents， distance，time， drift， and sailing speed that was truly marvellous.
“It looks as though it were lifting，” Neil Partington said，a couple of hours after we had entered the fog. “Where doyou say we are， Charley？”
Charley looked at his watch， “Six o’clock， and threehours more of ebb，” he remarked casually.
“But where do you say we are？” Neil insisted.
Charley pondered a moment， and then answered， “Thetide has edged us over a bit out of our course， but if thefog lifts right now， as it is going to lift， you’ll find we’re notmore than a thousand miles off McNear’s Landing.”
“You might be a little more definite by a few miles， anyway，”
Neil grumbled， showing by his tone that he disagreed.
“All right， then，” Charley said， conclusively， “not lessthan a quarter of a mile， not more than a half.”
The wind freshened with a couple of little puffs， and thefog thinned perceptibly.
“McNear’s is right off there，” Charley said， pointingdirectly into the fog on our weather beam.
The three of us were peering intently in that direction，when the Reindeer struck with a dull crash and cameto a standstill. We ran forward， and found her bowspritentangled in the tanned rigging of a short， chunky mast.
She had collided， head on， with a Chinese junk lying atanchor.
At the moment we arrived forward， five Chinese， like somany bees， came swarming out of the little ’tween-deckscabin， the sleep still in their eyes.
Leading them came a big， muscular man， conspicuousfor his pock- marked face and the yellow silk handkerchiefswathed about his head. It was Yellow Handkerchief， theChinaman whom we had arrested for illegal shrimp-fishingthe year before， and who， at that time， had nearly sunkthe Reindeer， as he had nearly sunk it now by violating therules of navigation.
“What d’ye mean， you yellow-faced heathen， lying herein a fairway without a horn a-going？” Charley cried hotly.
“Mean？” Neil calmly answered. “Just take a look—that’swhat he means.”
Our eyes followed the direction indicated by Neil’sfinger， and we saw the open amidships of the junk， halffilled， as we found on closer examination， with freshcaughtshrimps. Mingled with the shrimps were myriadsof small fish， from a quarter of an inch upward in size.
Yellow Handkerchief had lifted the trap-net at highwaterslack， and， taking advantage of the concealmentoffered by the fog， had boldly been lying by， waiting to liftthe net again at low-water slack.
“Well，” Neil hummed and hawed， “in all my varied andextensive experience as a fish patrolman， I must say this isthe easiest capture I ever made. What’ll we do with them，Charley？”
“Tow the junk into San Rafael， of course，” came theanswer. Charley turned to me. “You stand by the junk， lad，and I’ll pass you a towing line. If the wind doesn’t fail us，we’ll make the creek before the tide gets too low， sleep atSan Rafael， and arrive in Oakland to-morrow by midday.”
So saying， Charley and Neil returned to the Reindeerand got under way， the junk towing astern. I went aftand took charge of the prize， steering by means of anantiquated tiller and a rudder with large， diamond-shapedholes， through which the water rushed back and forth.
