swine an' me make a hundred swine. I'm a shoat with both feet in
the trough, first, last, an' always. If that bark's abandoned,
an' I says she is, she's ours. I'm out for anything that there's
stuff in. I guess I'm more of a beach-comber by nature than
anything else. If she's abandoned she belongs to us. To 'll with
this coolie game. We'll go beach-combin', you and I. We'll board
that bark and work her into the nearest port--San Diego, I guess--
and get the salvage on her if we have to swim in her. Are you
with me?" he held out his hand. The man was positively trembling
from head to heel. It was impossible to resist the excitement of
the situation, its novelty--the high crow's nest of the schooner,
the keen salt air, the Chinamen grouped far below, the indigo of
the warm ocean, and out yonder the forsaken derelict, rolling her
light hull till the garboard streak flashed in the sun.

"Well, of course, I'm with you, Cap," exclaimed Wilbur, gripping
Kitchell's hand. "When there's thirty thousand to be had for the
asking I guess I'm a 'na'chel bawn' beach-comber myself."

"Now, nothing about this to the coolies."

"But how will you make out with your owners, the Six Companies?
Aren't you bound to bring the 'Bertha' in?"

"Rot my owners!" exclaimed Kitchell. "I ain't a skipper of no
oil-boat any longer. I'm a beach-comber." He fixed the wallowing
bark with glistening eyes. "Gawd strike me," he murmured, "ain't
she a daisy? It's a little Klondike. Come on, son."

The two went down the ratlines, and Kitchell ordered a couple of