For some time I lay across a seat where I had been flung, face
downward, and with the water running out of my mouth. After a
while, still weak and faint, I turned around to see who was my
rescuer. And there, in the stern, sheet in one hand and tiller in
the other, grinning and nodding good-naturedly, sat Demetrios
Contos. He had intended to leave me to drown, – he said so
afterward, – but his better self had fought the battle, conquered,
and sent him back to me.
“You all-a right?” he asked.
I managed to shape a “yes” on my lips, though I could not yet
speak.
“You sail-a de boat verr-a good-a,” he said. “So good-a as a man.”
A compliment from Demetrios Contos was a compliment indeed, and I
keenly appreciated it, though I could only nod my head in
acknowledgment.
We held no more conversation, for I was busy recovering and he was
busy with the boat. He ran in to the wharf at Vallejo, made the
boat fast, and helped me out. Then it was, as we both stood on the
wharf, that Charley stepped out from behind a net-rack and put his
hand on Demetrios Contos’s arm.
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
65
“He saved my life, Charley,” I protested; “and I don’t think he
ought to be arrested.”
A puzzled expression came into Charley’s face, which cleared
immediately after, in a way it had when he made up his mind.
“I can’t help it, lad,” he said kindly. “I can’t go back on my
duty, and it’s plain duty to arrest him. To-day is Sunday; there
are two salmon in his boat which he caught to-day. What else can I
do?”
“But he saved my life,” I persisted, unable to make any other
argument.
Demetrios Contos’s face went black with rage when he learned
Charley’s judgment. He had a sense of being unfairly treated. The
better part of his nature had triumphed, he had performed a
generous act and saved a helpless enemy, and in return the enemy
was taking him to jail.
Charley and I were out of sorts with each other when we went back
to Benicia. I stood for the spirit of the law and not the letter;
but by the letter Charley made his stand. As far as he could see,
there was nothing else for him to do. The law said distinctly that
no salmon should be caught on Sunday. He was a patrolman, and it
was his duty to enforce that law. That was all there was to it.
He had done his duty, and his conscience was clear. Nevertheless,
the whole thing seemed unjust to me, and I felt very sorry for
Demetrios Contos.
Two days later we went down to Vallejo to the trial. I had to go
along as a witness, and it was the most hateful task that I ever
performed in my life when I testified on the witness stand to
seeing Demetrios catch the two salmon Charley had captured him
with.
Demetrios had engaged a lawyer, but his case was hopeless. The
jury was out only fifteen minutes, and returned a verdict of
guilty. The judge sentenced Demetrios to pay a fine of one hundred
dollars or go to jail for fifty days.
Charley stepped up to the clerk of the court. “I want to pay that
fine,” he said, at the same time placing five twenty-dollar gold
pieces on the desk. “It – it was the only way out of it, lad,” he
stammered, turning to me.
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
66
The moisture rushed into my eyes as I seized his hand. “I want to
pay – ” I began.
“To pay your half?” he interrupted. “I certainly shall expect you
to pay it.”
In the meantime Demetrios had been informed by his lawyer that his
fee likewise had been paid by Charley.
Demetrios came over to shake Charley’s hand, and all his warm
Southern blood flamed in his face. Then, not to be outdone in
generosity, he insisted on paying his fine and lawyer’s fee
himself, and flew half-way into a passion because Charley refused
to let him.
More than anything else we ever did, I think, this action of
Charley’s impressed upon the fishermen the deeper significance of
the law. Also Charley was raised high in their esteem, while I
came in for a little share of praise as a boy who knew how to sail
a boat. Demetrios Contos not only never broke the law again, but
he became a very good friend of ours, and on more than one occasion
he ran up to Benicia to have a gossip with us.
YELLOW HANDKERCHIEF
“I’m not wanting to dictate to you, lad,” Charley said; “but I’m
very much against your making a last raid. You’ve gone safely
through rough times with rough men, and it would be a shame to have
something happen to you at the very end.”
“But how can I get out of making a last raid?” I demanded, with the
cocksureness of youth. “There always has to be a last, you know,
to anything.”
Charley crossed his legs, leaned back, and considered the problem.
“Very true. But why not call the capture of Demetrios Contos the
last? You’re back from it safe and sound and hearty, for all your
good wetting, and – and – ” His voice broke and he could not speak
for a moment. “And I could never forgive myself if anything
happened to you now.”
I laughed at Charley’s fears while I gave in to the claims of his
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
67
affection, and agreed to consider the last raid already performed.
We had been together for two years, and now I was leaving the fish
patrol in order to go back and finish my education. I had earned
and saved money to put me through three years at the high school,
and though the beginning of the term was several months away, I
intended doing a lot of studying for the entrance examinations.
My belongings were packed snugly in a sea-chest, and I was all
ready to buy my ticket and ride down on the train to Oakland, when
Neil Partington arrived in Benicia. The Reindeer was needed
immediately for work far down on the Lower Bay, and Neil said he
intended to run straight for Oakland. As that was his home and as
I was to live with his family while going to school, he saw no
reason, he said, why I should not put my chest aboard and come
along.
So the chest went aboard, and in the middle of the afternoon we
hoisted the Reindeer’s big mainsail and cast off. It was
tantalizing fall weather. The sea-breeze, which had blown steadily
all summer, was gone, and in its place were capricious winds and
murky skies which made the time of arriving anywhere extremely
problematical. We started on the first of the ebb, and as we
slipped down the Carquinez Straits, I looked my last for some time
upon Benicia and the bight at Turner’s Shipyard, where we had
besieged the Lancashire Queen, and had captured Big Alec, the King
of the Greeks. And at the mouth of the Straits I looked with not a
little interest upon the spot where a few days before I should have
drowned but for the good that was in the nature of Demetrios
Contos.
A great wall of fog advanced across San Pablo Bay to meet us, and
in a few minutes the Reindeer was running blindly through the damp
obscurity. Charley, who was steering, 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 do you say we
are, Charley?”
Charley looked at his watch, “Six o’clock, and three hours more of
ebb,” he remarked casually.
“But where do you say we are?” Neil insisted.
TALES OF THE FISH PATROL
68
Charley pondered a moment, and then answered, “The tide has edged
us over a bit out of our course, but if the fog lifts right now, as
it is going to lift, you’ll find we’re not more 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 less than a
quarter of a mile, not more than a half.”
The wind freshened with a couple of little puffs, and the fog
thinned perceptibly.
“McNear’s is right off there,” Charley said, pointing directly into
the fog on our weather beam.
The three of us were peering intently in that direction, when the