Trim." The brown sweater pocketed the note, went over the side,
and rowed off.

Wilbur stood in the waist of a schooner anchored in the stream
well off Fisherman's wharf. In the forward part of the schooner a
Chinaman in brown duck was mixing paint. Wilbur was conscious
that he still wore his high hat and long coat, but his stick was
gone and one gray glove was slit to the button. In front of him
towered the enormous red-faced man. A pungent reek of some kind
of rancid fat or oil assailed his nostrils. Over by Alcatraz a
ferry-boat whistled for its slip as it elbowed its way through the
water.

Wilbur had himself fairly in hand by now. His wits were all about
him; but the situation was beyond him as yet.

"Git for'd," commanded the big man.

Wilbur drew himself up, angry in an instant. "Look here," he
began, "what's the meaning of this business? I know I've been
drugged and mishandled. I demand to be put ashore. Do you
understand that?"

"Angel child," whimpered the big man. "Oh, you lilee of the
vallee, you bright an' mornin' star. I'm reely pained y'know,
that your vally can't come along, but we'll have your piano set up
in the lazarette. It gives me genuine grief, it do, to see you
bein' obliged to put your lilee white feet on this here vulgar an'
dirtee deck. We'll have the Wilton carpet down by to-morrer, so
we will, my dear. Yah-h!" he suddenly broke out, as his rage