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'M not wanting to dictate to you, lad," Charley said, "but I'm very much against you making a last raid. You've gone safely through rough times with rough men, and it would be a shame to have something happen to you at the very end."
     "But how can I get out of making a last raid?" I demanded. "There always has to be a last, you know, to anything."
     "Very true. But why not call the capture of Demetrios Contos the last? You're back from it safe and sound and hearty, for all of a good wetting, and—and ——" his voice broke and he could not speak for a moment—"and I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you now."
     I laughed at Charley's fears while I gave in to the claims of his affection, and agreed to consider the last raid already performed. We had been together for two years, and now I was leaving the fish patrol in order to go back and finish my education. I had earned and saved enough money to take me through four years of high school, and although the beginning of the term was several months away, I intended doing a great deal of studying for the entrance examinations.
     My belongings were packed snugly in a sea-chest, and I was all ready to buy my ticket and ride down on the train to Oakland, when Neil Partington arrived in Benicia. The Reindeer was needed immediately for work far down on the Lower Bay, and Neil said he intended to run straight for Oakland. As that was his home, and as I was to live with his family while going to school, he saw no reason, he said, why I should not put my trunk aboard and come along.
     In the middle of the afternoon we hoisted the Reindeer's big mainsail and cast off. It was tantalizing fall weather. The sea-breeze, which had blown steadily all summer, was gone, and in its place were capricious winds and murky skies, which made the time of arriving anywhere extremely problematical.
     A great wall of fog advanced across San Pablo Bay to meet us, and in a few minutes the Reindeer was running blindly through the damp obscurity.
     "It looks as though it were lifting," Neil Partington said, a couple of hours after we had entered the fog. "Where do you say we are, Charley?"
     Charley pondered a moment, then answered, "The tide has edged us over a bit out of our course, but if the fog lifts right now, as it is going to lift, you'll find we're not more than a half a mile off NcNear's Landing."
     The three of us were peering intently into the fog when the Reindeer struck with a dull crash and came to a standstill. We ran forward and found her bowsprit entangled in the tanned rigging of a short, chunky mast. She had collided, head on, with a Chinese junk lying at anchor.
     At the moment we arrived forward, five Chinese came swarming out of the little between-decks cabin, the sleep still in their eyes.
     Leading them came a big, muscular man, conspicuous for his pockmarked face and the yellow silk handkerchief swathed about his head. It was "Yellow Handkerchief," the Chinaman whom we had arrested for illegal shrimp-fishing the year before, and who, at that time, had nearly sunk the Reindeer, as he had nearly sunk it now by violating the rules of navigation.
     "What d'ye mean, lying here in a fairway without a horn going?" Charley cried, hotly.
     "Mean?" Neil calmly answered. "Just take a look—that's what he means."
     Our eyes followed the direction indicated by Neil's finger, and we saw the open amidships of the junk half-filled with fresh-caught shrimps. Mingled with the shrimps we found, on closer examination, myriads of small fish, from a quarter of an inch upward in size. Yellow Handkerchief had lifted the trap-net at high-water slack, and taking advantage of the concealment offered by the fog, had boldly been lying by, waiting to lift the net again at low-water slack.
     "Well," Neil hummed and hawed, "in all my varied and extensive experience as a fish patrolman, I must say this is the easiest capture I ever made. What'll we do with them, Charley?"
     "Tow the junk into San Rafael, of course," came the answer. He turned to me. "You stand by the junk, lad, and I'll pass you a towing-line. If the wind doesn't fail us, we'll make the creek before the tide gets too low, sleep at San Rafael and arrive in Oakland to-morrow by midday."
     So saying, Charley and Neil returned to the Reindeer and got under way, the junk towing astern. I went aft and took charge of the prize, steering by means of an antiquated tiller and rudder with large, diamond-shape holes, through which the water rushed back and forth.
     The last of the fog and now vanished, and Charley's estimate of our position was confirmed by the sight of McNear's Landing a short half-mile away. Following along the west shore, we rounded Point San Pedro in plain view of the Chinese shrimp villages, and a great "to-do" was raised when they saw one of their junks towing behind the familiar fish-patrol sloop.
     The wind, coming off the land, was rather puffy and uncertain, and it would have been more to our advantage had it been stronger. San Rafael Creek, up which we had to go to reach the town and turn over our prisoners to the authorities, ran through wide-stretching marshes, and was difficult to navigate on a falling tide, while at low tide it was impossible to navigate at all.
     So, with the tide already half-ebbed, it was necessary for us to hurry. This the heavy junk prevented, lumbering along behind and holding the Reindeer back by just so much dead weight.
     "Tell those coolies to get up that sail!" Charley finally called to me. "We don't want to hang up on the mud-flats for the rest of the night."
     I repeated the order to Yellow Handkerchief, who mumbled it huskily to his men. He was suffering from a bad cold, which doubled him up in convulsive coughing spells and made his eyes heavy and bloodshot. This caused him to appear more evil-looking than ever, and when he glared viciously at me I remembered with a shiver the time of his previous arrest.
     His crew sullenly tailed on to the halyards, and the strange, outlandish sail, lateen in rig and dyed a warm brown, rose in the air. We were sailing on the wind, and when Yellow Handkerchief flattened down the sheet, the junk forged ahead and the tow-line went slack.
     Fast as the Reindeer was, the junk outsailed her, and to avoid running her down, I hauled a little closer on the wind. But the junk likewise outpointed, and in a couple of minutes I was abreast of the Reindeer and to windward. The tow-line had now tautened at right angles to the two boats, and the predicament was laughable.
     "Cast off!" I shouted.
     Charley hesitated.
     "It's all right," I added. "Nothing can happen. We'll make the creek on this tack, and you'll be right behind me all the way up to San Rafael."
     At this Charley cast off, and Yellow Handkerchief sent one of his men forward to haul in the line. In the gathering darkness I could just make out the mouth of San Rafael Creek, and by the time we entered it I could barely see its banks.
     The Reindeer was fully five minutes astern, and we continued to leave her behind as we beat up the narrow, winding channel. With Charley behind us, it seemed I had little to fear from my five prisoners; but the darkness prevented my keeping a close eye on them, so I transferred my revolver from my trousers pocket to the side pocket of my coat, where I could put my hand more easily upon it.
     Yellow Handkerchief was the one I feared, and that he knew it and made use of it subsequent events will show. He was sitting a few feet away from me, on what then happened to be the weather side of the junk. I could hardly see the outlines of his form, and I soon became convinced that he was slowly, very slowly, edging closer to me. I watched him carefully. Steering with my left hand, I slipped my right into my pocket and got hold of the revolver.
     I saw him shift along for a couple of inches, and I was just about to order him back when I was struck with force by a heavy figure, which had leaped through the air upon me from the lee side.
     It was one of the crew. He had pinioned my right arm so that I could not withdraw my hand from my pocket, and at the same time had clapped his other hand over my mouth. Of course I could have struggled away from him and either got my hand clear or my mouth so that I might cry an alarm, but in a trice Yellow Handkerchief was on top of me.
     I struggled round to no purpose in the bottom of the junk, while my legs and arms were tied and my mouth securely bound in what I afterward found to be a cotton shirt. Then I was left lying in the bottom.
     Yellow Handkerchief took the tiller, issued his orders in whispers; and from where we were at the time, and from the alteration of the sail, which I could dimly make out above me as a blot against the stars, I knew the junk was being headed into the mouth of a small slough which empted at that point into San Rafael Creek.
     In a couple of minutes we ran softly alongside the bank, and the sail was silently lowered. The Chinese kept very quiet. Yellow Handkerchief sat down in the bottom beside me and I could feel him straining to repress his raspy, hacking cough. Possibly seven or eight minutes later I heard Charley's voice as the Reindeer went past the mouth of the slough.
     "I can't tell you how relieved I am," I could plainly hear him saying to Neil, "that the lad has finished with the fish patrol without accident."
     Here Neil said something which I could not catch, and then Charley's voice went on:
     "The youngster takes naturally to the water, and if, when he finishes high school, he takes a course in navigation and goes deep sea, I see no reason why he shouldn't rise to be master of the finest and biggest ship afloat."
     It was all very flattering to me, but lying there, bound and gagged by my own prisoners, I must say I was not quite in the proper situation to enjoy my smiling future.
     With the Reindeer went my last hope. What was to happen next I could not imagine, for the Chinese were of a different race from mine, and from what I knew I was confident that fair play was no part of their make-up.
     After waiting a few minutes longer the crew hosted the lateen sail, and Yellow Handkerchief steered down toward the mouth of San Rafael Creek. As we passed out of the creek a noisy discussion arose, which I knew related to me. Yellow Handkerchief was vehement, but the other four as vehemently opposed him. It was very evident that he advocated doing away with me, and that they were afraid of the consequences.
     My feelings, as my fate hung in the balance, may be guessed. The discussion developed into a quarrel, and in the midst of it Yellow Handkerchief unshipped the heavy tiller and sprang toward me. But his four companions threw themselves between, and a clumsy struggle took place. In the end Yellow Handkerchief was overcome, and he sullenly returned to the steering, while they soundly berated him for his rashness.
     Not long after, the sail was run down and the junk slowly urged forward by means of the sweeps. I felt it ground gently on the soft mud. Three of them—they all wore long sea-boots—got over the side, while the remaining two passed me across the rail. With Yellow Handkerchief at my legs and his two companions at my shoulders, they began to flounder along through the mud.
     After some minutes of this their feet struck firmer footing, and I knew they were carrying me up some beach. The location of this beach was not doubtful in my mind. It could be none other than one of the Marin Islands, a group of rocky islets which lay off the Marin County shore.
     When they reached the firm sand which marked the high-tide limit, I was dropped, and none too gently. Yellow Handkerchief kicked me spitefully in the ribs, and then the trio floundered back through the mud to the junk. A moment later I heard the sail go up and slat in the wind as they drew up the sheet. Then silence fell, and I was left to my own devices.
     Although I writhed and squirmed like a good fellow, the knots remained as hard as ever. But in the course of my squirming I rolled over upon a heap of clam-shells—the remains, evidently, of the clambake of some yachting party. This gave me an idea. My hands were tied behind my back, and clutching a shell in them, I rolled over and over, up on the beach, till I came to the rocks I knew to be there.
     Rolling round and searching, I finally discovered a narrow crevice, in which I shoved the shell. The edge of it was sharp, and across the sharp edge I proceeded to saw the rope which bound my wrists.
     The edge of the shell was brittle, and I broke it by bearing to heavily upon it. Then I rolled back to the heap and returned with as many shells as I could carry in both hands. I broke several shells, cut my hands a number of times, and got cramps in my legs from my strained position and exertions.
     While I was suffering from the cramps and resting, I heard a familiar halloo drift across the water. It was Charley, searching for me. The gag in my mouth prevented me from replying, and I could only lie there, helplessly fuming, while he rowed past the island.
     I returned to the sawing process, and at the end of half an hour succeeded in severing the rope. The rest was easy. My hands once free, it was a matter of minutes to loosen my legs and take the gag out of my moth. I ran round the island to make sure it was and island, and not by any chance a portion of the mainland.
     An island it certainly was, one of the Marin group, fringed with a sandy beach and surrounded by a sea of mud. Nothing remained but to wait till daylight and to keep warm; for it was a cold, raw night for California, with just enough wind to pierce the skin and cause one to shiver.
     To keep up the circulation, I ran round the island a dozen or so times and clambered across its rocky backbone as many times more—all of which was of greater service to me, as I afterward discovered, than merely to warm me up.
     In the midst of this exercise, I wondered if I had lost anything out of my pockets while rolling over and over in the sand. A search showed the absence of my revolver and pocket-knife. Yellow Handkerchief had taken the first, but the knife had been lost in the sand.
     I was hunting for it when the sound of rowlocks came to my ears. At first, of course, I thought of Charley; but on second thought I knew Charley would be calling out as he rowed along. A sudden premonition of danger seized me. The Marin Islands are lonely places, where chance visitors in the dead of night are hardly to be expected.
     The sound made by the rowlocks grew more distinct. I crouched in the sand and listened intently. The boat, which I judged a small skiff from the quick stroke of the oars, was landing in the mud about fifty yards up the beach. I heard a raspy, hacking cough, and my heart stood still. It was yellow Handkerchief! Not to be robbed of his revenge by his more cautious companions, he had stolen away from the village and come back alone!
     I did some swift thinking. I was unarmed and helpless on a tiny islet, and a yellow barbarian, whom I had reason to fear, was coming after me. Any place was safer than the island. As he began to flounder ashore through the mud, I started to flounder out into it, going over the same course which the Chinese had taken in landing me and in returning to the junk.
     Yellow Handkerchief, believing me to be lying tightly bound, exercised no care, but came ashore noisily. This helped me, for, under the cover us his noise, I managed to make fifty feet by the time he had reached the beach.
     Here I lay down in the mud. It was cold and clammy and made me shiver, but I did not care to stand up and run the risk of being discovered by his sharp eyes.
     He walked down the beach straight to where he had left my lying, and I had a fleeting feeling of regret at not being able to see his surprise when he did not find me.
     What his movements were after that I had largely to deduce from the facts of the situation, for I could hardly see him in the dim starlight. But I was sure that the first thing he did was to make the circuit of the beach to learn if landings had been made of other boats. This he would have know at once by the tracks through the mud.
     Convinced that no boat had removed me from the island, he next started to find out what had become of me. Beginning at the pile of clam-shells, he lighted matches to trace my tracks in the sand.
     The multiplicity of my footprints puzzled him. Then the idea that I might be out in the mud must have struck him, for he waded out a few yards in my direction and stooping, with his eyes searched the dim surface long and carefully. He could not have been more than fifteen feet from me, and had he lighted a match he would surely have discovered me.
     The thought came to me of going toward Yellow Handkerchief's skiff and escaping in it, but at that very moment he returned to the beach, and as if fearing the very thing I had in mind, he slushed out through the mud to assure himself that the skiff was safe.
     I knew he was convinced that I was hiding somewhere in the mud, But to hunt on a dark night for a boy in a sea of mud was like hunting for a needle in a haystack, and he did not attempt it.
     At last he waded out to his skiff and rowed away. My relief was great, and I started at once to crawl for the beach. But a thought struck me. What if this departure of Yellow Handkerchief's were a sham? What if he had done it merely to entice me ashore?
     The more I thought of it, the more certain I became that he had made a little too much noise with his oars as he rowed away. So I remained, lying in the mud and shivering. I shivered till the muscles of the small of my back ached and pained me as badly as the cold, and I had need of all my self-control to force myself to remain in my miserable situation.
     It was well that I did, however, for, possibly an hour later, I thought I could make out something moving on the beach. I watched intently, but my ears were rewarded first, by a raspy cough I knew too well. Yellow Handkerchief had sneaked back, landed on the other side of the island, and crept around to surprise me if I had returned.
     After that, although hours passed by without sign of him, I was afraid to return to the island at all. On the other hand, I was almost equally afraid that I should die of the exposure I was undergoing. I had never dreamed one could suffer so. The tide had long since begun to rise, and foot by foot it drove me in toward the beach. High water came at three o'clock, and at three o'clock I drew myself up on the beach, more dead than alive, and too helpless to have offered any resistance had Yellow Handkerchief swooped down upon me.
     But no Yellow Handkerchief appeared. He had given me up and gone back to Point San Pedro. Nevertheless, I was in a deplorable, not to say dangerous, condition. I could not stand upon my feet, much less walk. My clammy, muddy garments clung to me like sheets of ice.
     Nothing remained by to crawl weakly, like a snail, and at the cost of constant pain, up and down the sand. I kept this up as long as possible, but as the east paled with the coming of dawn I began to succumb. The sky grew rosy-red, and the golden rim of the sun, showing above the horizon, found me lying helpless and motionless among the clam-shells.
     As in a dream I saw the familiar mainsail of the Reindeer as she slipped out of San Rafael Creek on a light puff of morning air. This dream was very much broken. There are intervals I can never recollect on looking back over it.
     Three things, however, I distinctly remember: the first sight of the Reindeer's mainsail; her lying to anchor a few hundred feet away, and a small boat leaving her side; and the cabin stove roaring red-hot, myself swathed all over with blankets, except on the chest and shoulders, which Charley was pounding and mauling unmercifully, and my mouth and throat burning with the coffee which Neil Partington was pouring down.
     By the time we arrived in Oakland I was as limber and strong as ever, although Charley and Neil Partington were afraid I was going to have pneumonia; and Mrs. Partington, for my first six months of school, kept an anxious eye upon me to discover the first symptoms of consumption.
     Time flies. It seems but yesterday that I was a lad of sixteen on the fish patrol. Yet this very morning I know that I arrived from China, with a quick passage to my credit and master of the barkentine Harvester. And I know that to-morrow morning I shall run over to Oakland to see Neil Partington and his wife and family, and later on go up to Benicia to see Charley Le Grant and talk over old times with him.
     No, I shall not go to Benicia, now that I think about it. I expect to be a highly interested party to a wedding, shortly to take place. Her name is Alice Partington, and since Charley has promised to be best man, he will have to come down to Oakland instead.

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