GEORGE did.

An abject and crawling apology from the Piker, published and paid for in next morning’s papers, restarted the publicity campaign, and, though the press never recovered its first careless rapture, the thing had made good and was established in the mind of the public. The letters came in day by day, some addressed to the club, some care of Joe Barrett, all of the same tenor. The expedition that had aroused mild merriment in the upper circles of San Francisco was received in dead seriousness by the middle and lower circles—even with enthusiasm. The thing had vast appeal to the movie-red mind; the exploits of the Dutchman, inconsiderable enough in a world where criminal license had suddenly added cubits to its stature, had been boomed by the press. Hank Fisher had already a name to embroider on and “Bud” du Cane was not unknown. Letters came from all round the Bay; from Oakland, Berkeley, Port Costa, New York, California, Antioch, Benicia, San Rafael and Tiburon; letters came from Monterey and all down the coast. Letters from “all sorts and sexes” to put it in Hank’s words. Women offered to come along as cooks, boys as “deck-hands,” a retired banker at San Jo offered to pay to be taken along. Never in any letter except that of the “bill-mackerel” was there a reference to terms, all these people were ready to go for nothing but their “grub and bunk” as one gentleman put it, and, if you wish to gauge the utility of a personality like Hank’s, this vast and healthy wave of adventure-craving which he had set going amongst the populace of the state is an index.

“And not one of the lot is any use,” said Hank, as he sat in the cabin with George one day about a week before the projected start. “I saw those people I wrote to yesterday, one had consumption, another one had swelled head, fancied himself a duke to judge by his talk, another was six foot seven or thereabouts, couldn’t have taken him aboard without his head sticking out of the saloon hatch, another guy was on a tramp from Oskosh to S’uthern California and wanted to take the expedition en route, he was an oil prospector and troubled with something that made him want to scratch; then there was an Italian who’d been a count and an Irishman who’d served in the Irish rebellion under Roger Casement, a decent chap, but I’d just as soon take aboard a live bomb shell. We’ll just have to make out, you and me, as after-guard—four Chinks will be enough for a crew and I can pick them up by the handful.”

“When are the provisions and stuff coming on board?”

“Tomorrow or next day. I saw J. B. yesterday—”

“Wear Jack, ahoy!” came a voice from the wharf through the open skylight.

“Hullo!” cried Hank. “Who’s that and what d’you want?”

A thud came on the deck followed by the voice at the companion hatch. “May I come below?” The stairs creaked and at the saloon door appeared a man.

The sun glow from the skylight struck him full as he stood there, a huge, red-bearded, blue-eyed sailor man, neatly dressed in dark serge and wearing a red necktie. His eyes were most taking and astonishing liquid sparkling blue—the eyes of a child.

Contrasted with the hatchet-faced Hank and the sophisticated Bud, he seemed youthful, yet he was older than either of them.