Crawling carefully along the deck, the two sailors, Ole, and myself got the heavy plate on deck and aft, where we reared it as a shield between the wheel and the fishermen. The bullets whanged and banged against it till it rang like a bull’s-eye, but Charley grinned in its shelter, and coolly went on steering. So we raced along, behind us a howling, screaming bedlam of wrathful Greeks, Collinsville ahead, and bullets spat-spatting all around us. “Ole,” Charley said in a faint voice, “I don’t know what we’re going to do.” Ole Ericsen, lying on his back close to the rail and grinning upward at the sky, turned over on his side and looked at him. “Ay tank we go into Collinsville yust der same,” he said. “But we can’t stop,” Charley groaned. “I never thought of it, but we can’t stop.” A look of consternation slowly overspread Ole Ericsen’s broad face. It was only too true. We had a hornet’s nest on our hands, and to stop at Collinsville would be to have it about our ears. “Every man Jack of them has a gun,” one of the sailors remarked cheerfully. “Yes, and a knife, too,” the other sailor added. It was Ole Ericsen’s turn to groan. “What for a Svaidish faller like me monkey with none of my biziness, I don’t know,” he soliloquized. A bullet glanced on the stern and sang off to starboard like a spiteful bee. “There’s nothing to do but plump the _Mary Rebecca_ ashore and run for it,” was the verdict of the first cheerful sailor. “And leaf der _Mary Rebecca_?” Ole demanded, with unspeakable horror in his voice. “Not unless you want to,” was the response. “But I don’t want to be within a thousand miles of her when those fellers come aboard”—indicating the bedlam of excited Greeks towing behind. We were right in at Collinsville then, and went foaming by within biscuit-toss of the wharf. “I only hope the wind holds out,” Charley said, stealing a glance at our prisoners. “What of der wind?” Ole demanded disconsolately. “Der river will not hold out, and then . . . and then . . .” “It’s head for tall timber, and the Greeks take the hindermost,” adjudged the cheerful sailor, while Ole was stuttering over what would happen when we came to the end of the river. We had now reached a dividing of the ways. To the left was the mouth of the Sacramento River, to the right the mouth of the San Joaquin. The cheerful sailor crept forward and jibed over the foresail as Charley put the helm to starboard and we swerved to the right into the San Joaquin. The wind, from which we had been running away on an even keel, now caught us on our beam, and the _Mary Rebecca_ was pressed down on her port side as if she were about to capsize.