The
old man stepped out, climbed a pace or two, then came back.
"Look ye here, byes," he said, "I'll give ye foive dollars a man--an' a
day's 'liberty' t' spind it--if ye only baate th' 'Dutchmen.' . . .
Let th' Cup go where it will!"
III
The Bay of San Francisco is certainly one of the finest natural
harbours in the world, let Sydney and Rio and Falmouth all contest the
claim. Land-locked to every wind that blows, with only a narrow
channel open to the sea, the navies of the world could lie peacefully
together in its sheltered waters. The coast that environs the harbour
abounds in natural beauties, but of all the wooded creeks--fair
stretches of undulating downs--or stately curves of winding river, none
surpasses the little bay formed by the turn of Benita, the northern
postern of the Golden Gates. Here is the little township of Sancilito,
with its pretty white houses nestling among the dark green of the
deeply wooded slopes. In the bay there is good anchorage for a limited
number of vessels, and fortunate were they who manned the tall ships
that lay there, swinging ebb and flood, waiting for a burthen of golden
grain.
On Saturday the little bay was crowded by a muster of varied craft.
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