"I knew it! It's his way. I've seen it so often. I remember when I
was twelve years old--mother was alone--we were running into San
Francisco. It was in the Dixie, a ship almost as big as this. There
was a strong fair wind blowing, and father did not take a tug. We
sailed right through the Golden Gate and up the San Francisco water-
front. There was a swift flood tide, too; and the men, both watches,
were taking in sail as fast as they could.

"Now the fault was the steamboat captain's. He miscalculated our
speed and tried to cross our bow. Then came the collision, and the
Dixie's bow cut through that steamboat, cabin and hull. There were
hundreds of passengers, men, women, and children. Father never took
his hands from his pockets. He sent the mate for'ard to superintend
rescuing the passengers, who were already climbing on to our bowsprit
and forecastle-head, and in a voice no different from what he'd use
to ask some one to pass the butter he told the second mate to set all
sail. And he told him which sails to begin with."

"But why set more sails?" I interrupted.

"Because he could see the situation. Don't you see, the steamboat
was cut wide open. All that kept her from sinking instantly was the
bow of the Dixie jammed into her side. By setting more sail and
keeping before the wind, he continued to keep the bow of the Dixie
jammed.

"I was terribly frightened. People who had sprung or fallen
overboard were drowning on each side of us, right in my sight, as we
sailed along up the water-front. But when I looked at father, there
he was, just as I had always known him, hands in pockets, walking