He lingered a moment
with his oars lifted, looking at his passenger. "It ain't no business o'
mine, young man," he said deliberately, "but I reckon you understand me
when I say that I've just taken another man over there."
"I do," said Clarence impatiently.
"And you still want to go?"
"Certainly," replied Clarence, with a cold stare, taking up his oars.
The man shrugged his shoulders, bent himself for the stroke, and the
boat sprung forward. The others rowed strongly and rapidly, the tough
ashen blades springing like steel from the water, the heavy boat seeming
to leap in successive bounds until they were fairly beyond the curving
inshore current and clearing the placid, misty surface of the bay.
Clarence did not speak, but bent abstractedly over his oar; the ferryman
and his crew rowed in equal panting silence; a few startled ducks
whirred before them, but dropped again to rest. In half an hour they
were at the Embarcadero. The time was fairly up. Clarence's eyes were
eagerly bent for the first appearance of the stage-coach around the
little promontory; the ferryman was as eagerly scanning the bare, empty
street of the still sleeping settlement.
"I don't see him anywhere," said the ferryman with a glance, half of
astonishment and half of curiosity, at his solitary passenger.
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