He told himself grimly that he was to have a free cruise up the bay, perhaps as far as Alviso; perhaps the “Bertha Millner” would even make the circuit of the bay before returning to San Francisco. He might be gone a week. Wilbur could already see the scare-heads of the daily papers the next morning, chronicling the disappearance of “One of Society's Most Popular Members.” “That's well, y'r throat halyards. Here, Lilee of the Vallee, give a couple of pulls on y'r peak halyard purchase.” Wilbur stared at the Captain helplessly. “No can tell, hey?” inquired Charlie from the galley. “Pullum disa lope, sabe?” Wilbur tugged at the rope the cook indicated. “That's well, y'r peak halyard purchase,” chanted Captain Kitchell. Wilbur made the rope fast. The mainsail was set, and hung slatting and flapping in the wind. Next the for'sail was set in much the same manner, and Wilbur was ordered to “lay out on the ji'boom and cast the gaskets off the jib.” He “lay out” as best he could and cast off the gaskets--he knew barely enough of yachting to understand an order here and there--and by the time he was back on the fo'c'sle head the Chinamen were at the jib halyard and hoisting away. “That's well, y'r jib halyards.” The “Bertha Millner” veered round and played off to the wind, tugging at her anchor. “Man y'r windlass.” Wilbur and the crew jumped once more to the brakes. “Brake down, heave y'r anchor to the cathead.” The anchor-chain, already taut, vibrated and then cranked through the hawse-holes as the hands rose and fell at the brakes. The anchor came home, dripping gray slime. A nor'west wind filled the schooner's sails, a strong ebb tide caught her underfoot. “We're off,” muttered Wilbur, as the “Bertha Millner” heeled to the first gust. But evidently the schooner was not bound up the bay. “Must be Vallejo or Benicia, then,” hazarded Wilbur, as the sails grew tenser and the water rippled ever louder under the schooner's forefoot. “Maybe they're going after hay or wheat.” The schooner was tacking, headed directly for Meiggs's wharf. She came in closer and closer, so close that Wilbur could hear the talk of the fishermen sitting on the stringpieces. He had just made up his mind that they were to make a landing there, when-- “Stand by for stays,” came the raucous bark of the Captain, who had taken on the heel. The sails slatted furiously as the schooner came about. Then the “Bertha Millner” caught the wind again and lay over quietly and contentedly to her work. The next tack brought the schooner close under Alcatraz. The sea became heavier, the breeze grew stiff and smelled of the outside ocean. Out beyond them to westward opened the Golden Gate, a bleak vista of gray-green water roughened with white-caps. “Stand by for stays.”