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 San Francisco; 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. “Come on lad,” he said. “On to the dock with you. We’ve got them!” It was our good fortune to leave the _Streak_ when we did, for a little later one of the spy fishermen appeared. Charley and I took up our accustomed places, on the stringer-piece, a little ahead of the _Streak_ and over our own boat, where we could comfortably watch the _Lancashire Queen_. Nothing occurred till about nine o’clock, when we saw the two Italians leave the ship and pull along their side of the triangle toward the shore. Charley looked as unconcerned as could be, but before they had covered a quarter of the distance, he whispered to me: