By the Great Horn Spoon!: Chapters 6–8

As Praiseworthy clipped away, passengers stood around watching and offering advice. Even a haircut broke the monotony of these endless days at sea.

“She’s stopped making smoke, Captain!”
Smoke had indeed stopped billowing from her funnel.

Day after day the gold ship languished on the sea waiting for a good wind to fill her canvas.

“Is Aunt Arabella an old maid?” Jack asked solemnly.
“An old maid?” replied Praiseworthy. He leaned his chin on the hook of his umbrella. “Your Aunt Arabella is a young and beautiful woman.”

“Dear Miss Sarah is mistaken. I have no doubt that your Aunt Arabella is merely waiting for the right gentleman to come along. And I daresay he’ll be delighted to gain two fine nieces and a stalwart young nephew.”

“Indeed, Master Jack,” said Praiseworthy. “I seem to be a failure in my first attempt at both trade and agriculture. I suppose we should, at the very least, reimburse Mr. Azariah Jones for the few raw potatoes we helped ourselves to as stowaways.”

“Nonsense,” said the butler. “Spoiled the potatoes may be—but juicy they are, sir. Master Jack can attest to that. Why, they’re like fat raindrops in brown skins. Monsieur Gaunt, you need only poke each of your grape cuttings into a plump potato. I daresay they will stay alive all the way to Callao.”

He wandered higher and higher into the riggings, exploring the mysteries aloft—the footropes and shrouds and blocks.

More than once the boatswain, a bantam with a voice like a frog’s, chased him down, but it was like trying to keep a boy out of a backyard tree.

“She’s loaded up with coal and fresh water,” snapped Captain Swain. “Loaded up and skedaddled!”

Hardly had the mooring lines been thrown out, like bull whips, when men began to leap to the wharf.

Hardly had the mooring lines been thrown out, like bull whips, when men began to leap to the wharf.

The streets thronged with sailors and gold-seekers, and in the distance the great Andes rose like painted scenery.

Before the gangway could be raised, at least a dozen assorted cats followed Praiseworthy aboard.

“Blast the Sea Raven!” he was bellowing. “She’s filled her bunkers and piled her decks with coal. Hills of it! Mountains of it! Taken every lump to be had in Callao. She’s made sure there wasn’t a cinder left for us!”

Her passengers could be seen at the rails, glum and silent, as the Lady Wilma pulled ahead.

Jack tried hard to ignore them, for Good Luck had taught him a lesson, but in the end he was putting out galley scraps at night.

Every morsel would be gone by morning.

Dr. Buckbee spent his days fishing, with the line tied around his peg leg. He would drowse in the sun until a tug roused him.

Dr. Buckbee spent his days fishing, with the line tied around his peg leg. He would drowse in the sun until a tug roused him.

But when his back was turned, the fish would disappear as if into thin air. The wily cats grew fatter.

One bright morning, with San Francisco not more than a day’s run, the bountiful winds died away.

Peddlers and hawkers and hotel runners mixed through the crowd and shouted at the newcomers.

Peddlers and hawkers and hotel runners mixed through the crowd and shouted at the newcomers.

Buildings were going up everywhere and a sand dredger was pounding the air.

There was a smell of mutton from the chop houses and a sizzle of hot grease from the oyster shops.

Praiseworthy and Jack continued along the boardwalk, which was hammered together mostly out of barrel staves, and reached the United States Hotel.

The walls of their room were lined with blood-red calico and there was China matting on the plank floor.

There were not only gold ships, but Navy frigates and Chinese junks and the going and coming of longboats.

“Let me see. We have thirty-eight dollars left. That’s a start, isn’t it? Of course, we’ll have our room and meals to pay. But if I detect one thing in the air—it’s opportunity. The sooner you wash, Master Jack, the sooner we can tend to our financial dilemma. Your Aunt Arabella wouldn’t allow you abroad on the streets with dirty ears and sea salt in your eyebrows. And don’t forget the soap.”

It wouldn’t do, he told himself, to see Master Jack turn into a ragamuffin. No, indeed. Miss Arabella would never forgive me.

But as they ambled along the boardwalk Jack began to realize that the miner was following them.

Praiseworthy picked up the bundle of shirts and gave Jack a look of modest defeat. “Since we’ve managed without baths, I daresay we can do without starched shirts. Come along.”

The miner’s face—what could be seen of it—broke into a sunny smile. “I’d be much obliged if you'd barber me up, Mr. Praiseworthy. Name your price.”

“Why, look there!” the miner roared with laughter. “The boy’s panned himself some color. I figured I scratched enough pay dirt into my beard to assay out at about $14 an ounce. Since I give you the whiskers and all—the gold is yours!”