noise of oars rising and falling in their row-locks could be heard
muffled and indistinctly during the night. Whatever foundation there
might have been for these stories, it was certain that a more weird and
desolate-looking spot could not have been selected for their theatre.
High hills, verdureless and enfiladed with dark canadas, cast their
gaunt shadows on the tide. During a greater portion of the day the wind,
which blew furiously and incessantly, seemed possessed with a spirit of
fierce disquiet and unrest. Toward nightfall the sea-fog crept with
soft step through the portals of the Golden Gate, or stole in noiseless
marches down the hillside, tenderly soothing the wind-buffeted face
of the cliff, until sea and sky were hid together. At such times the
populous city beyond and the nearer settlement seemed removed to an
infinite distance. An immeasurable loneliness settled upon the cliff.
The creaking of a windlass, or the monotonous chant of sailors on
some unseen, outlying ship, came faint and far, and full of mystic
suggestion.

About a year ago a well-to-do middle-aged broker of San Francisco found
himself at nightfall the sole occupant of a "plunger," encompassed in
a dense fog, and drifting toward the Golden Gate. This unexpected
termination of an afternoon's sail was partly attributable to his want
of nautical skill, and partly to the effect of his usually sanguine
nature. Having given up the guidance of his boat to the wind and tide,
he had trusted too implicitly for that reaction which his business
experience assured him was certain to occur in all affairs, aquatic
as well as terrestrial. "The tide will turn soon," said the broker,
confidently, "or something will happen." He had scarcely settled himself
back again in the stern-sheets, before the bow of the plunger, obeying
some mysterious impulse, veered slowly around and a dark object loomed
up before him. A gentle eddy carried the boat further in shore, until