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Learning Spring Boot 2.0
Second Edition

Simplify the development of lightning fast applications based on microservices and

reactive programming

Greg L. Turnquist
BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Learning Spring Boot 2.0
Second Edition

Copyright © 2017 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of
brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of the information
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any damages caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the companies and
products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals. However, Packt Publishing cannot
guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: November 2014

Second edition: November 2017

Production reference: 1311017

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham
B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78646-378-4
www.packtpub.com
Credits

Author Copy Editor

Greg L. Turnquist Sonia Mathur

Reviewer Project Coordinator

Zoltan Altfatter Prajakta Naik

Commissioning Editor Proofreader

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About the Author
Greg L. Turnquist has been a software professional since 1997. In 2002, he joined the senior software
team that worked on Harris' $3.5 billion FAA telco program, architecting mission-critical enterprise
apps while managing a software team. He provided after-hours support to a nation-wide system and is
no stranger to midnight failures and software triages. In 2010, he joined the SpringSource division of
VMware, which was spun off into Pivotal in 2013.

As a test-bitten script junky, Java geek, and JavaScript Padawan, he is a member of the Spring Data
team and the lead for Spring Session MongoDB. He has made key contributions to Spring Boot, Spring
HATEOAS, and Spring Data REST while also serving as editor-at-large for Spring's Getting Started
Guides.

Greg wrote technical best sellers Python Testing Cookbook and Learning Spring Boot, First Edition, for
Packt. When he isn't slinging code, Greg enters the world of magic and cross swords, having written the
speculative fiction action and adventure novel, Darklight.

He completed his master's degree in computer engineering at Auburn University and lives in the United
States with his family.
About the Reviewer
Zoltan Altfatter (@altfatterz) is a software engineer, passionate about the JVM and Spring ecosystem.
He has several years of industry experience working at small startups and big consultancy firms.

You can find more about him on his blog: http://zoltanaltfatter.com.

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Table of Contents
Preface
What this book covers

What you need for this book

Who this book is for

Conventions

Reader feedback
Customer support
Downloading the example code

Downloading the color images of this book

Errata

Piracy

Questions
1. Quick Start with Java

Getting started
Spring Boot starters

Running a Spring Boot application

Delving into Spring Boot's property support

Bundling up the application as a runnable JAR file

Deploying to Cloud Foundry
Adding production-ready support
Pinging our app for general health

Metrics
Summary

2. Reactive Web with Spring Boot

Creating a reactive web application with Spring Initializr

Learning the tenets of reactive programming

Introducing Reactor types

Switching from Embedded Netty to Apache Tomcat

Comparing reactive Spring WebFlux against classic Spring MVC
Why is Spring doing this?
Showing some Mono/Flux-based endpoints
Creating a reactive ImageService

Creating a reactive file controller

Why use reactive programming?
Interacting with a Thymeleaf template
Illustrating how going from async to sync can be easy, but the opposite is not

Summary
3. Reactive Data Access with Spring Boot
Getting underway with a reactive data store
Solving a problem
Wiring up Spring Data repositories with Spring Boot
Creating a reactive repository

Pulling data through a Mono/Flux and chain of operations

Creating custom finders
 Querying by example
Querying with MongoOperations

Logging reactive operations

Summary

4. Testing with Spring Boot

Test dependencies

Unit testing
Slice-based testing
Testing with embedded MongoDB

Testing with a real MongoDB database

Testing WebFlux controllers

Fully embedded Spring Boot app tests

Testing your custom Spring Boot autoconfiguration

Summary

5. Developer Tools for Spring Boot Apps

Using Spring Boot's DevTools for hot code reloading

Using Spring Boot's autoconfiguration report

Making local changes and seeing them on the target system

Writing a custom health check

Adding build data to /application/info

Creating custom metrics

Working with additional Actuator endpoints

Summary

6. AMQP Messaging with Spring Boot

Getting started with RabbitMQ
Installing RabbitMQ broker

Launching the RabbitMQ broker

Adding messaging as a new component to an existing application

Creating a message producer/message consumer
Displaying comments

Producing comments
AMQP fundamentals
Adding customized metrics to track message flow
Peeking at Spring Cloud Stream (with RabbitMQ)
Introduction to Spring Cloud

Logging with Spring Cloud Stream

Summary
7. Microservices with Spring Boot
A quick primer on microservices

Dynamically registering and finding services with Eureka

Introducing @SpringCloudApplication
Calling one microservice from another with client-side load balancing
Implementing microservice circuit breakers

Monitoring circuits
Offloading microservice settings to a configuration server
Summary
8. WebSockets with Spring Boot
 Publishing saved comments to a chat service
Creating a chat service to handle WebSocket traffic
Brokering WebSocket messages

Broadcasting saved comments

Configuring WebSocket handlers

Consuming WebSocket messages from the web page

Moving to a fully asynchronous web client

Handling AJAX calls on the server

Introducing user chatting

Sending user-specific messages
Registering users without authentication

Linking a user to a session

Sending user-to-user messages

Checking out the final product

JSR 356 versus Spring WebFlux messaging

Summary

9. Securing Your App with Spring Boot

Securing a Spring Boot application
Using Spring Session
Creating a Gateway API
Securing the chat microservice
Authentication versus authorization

Sharing session details with other microservices

Securing the images microservice
Wiring in image ownership
Authorizing methods
Tailoring the UI with authorization checks

Securing WebSockets
Tracing calls

Securing the Config Server

Securing the Eureka Server

Summary
10. Taking Your App to Production with Spring Boot
Profile-based sets of beans

Creating configuration property beans

Overriding property settings in production
@ConfigurationProperties versus @Value
Pushing app to Cloud Foundry and adjusting the settings
Summary
Preface
@springboot allows me to focus on developing my app, not reinventing the wheel

@bananmuffins #VelocityConf @pivotal

– Faiz Parker @_CloudNinja

When Learning Spring Boot, First Edition, by Packt, made its debut, it was the first Spring Boot book
to hit the international market. The user community ate it up, which is evidence of the popularity of
Spring Boot. And today, Spring Boot is driven by the same, core principal stated in that book's preface,
"How can we make Spring more accessible to new developers?"

By focusing on developers, community, and customers, Spring Boot has alleviated untold hours of time
normally spent plumbing infrastructure. Andrew Clay Shafer, Pivotal's Senior Directory of Technology,
has presented a most famous conference slide, "'Great job configuring servers this year'​​––​No CEO
Ever." We don't get bonus points for wasting time configuring web containers, database connectors,
template view resolvers, and other mind-numbing infrastructure. However, we've done it for so long, we
all assume it's a part and parcel of our trade.

Spring Boot has upset that apple cart and shown that we can, in fact, focus on building features our
customers want on day one. As James Watters, Senior Vice President at Pivotal, has stated in countless
presentations, when you focus on things above the value line, you build real confidence with your
customers. This is demonstrated by the latest Zero Turnaround whitepaper showing that 46%, or almost
one of every two Java developers, is using some part of the Spring portfolio. Spring Boot is solving
problems for legions of customers, and this book can help you close the gap in your understanding.
What this book covers
, Quick Start with Java, explains how to rapidly craft a web application running on an
Chapter 1

embedded web container, access some data, and then deploy it into the cloud using minimal amounts of
code and build settings.

, Reactive Web with Spring Boot, shows how to start building a social media service to upload
Chapter 2

pictures using Spring WebFlux, Project Reactor, and the Thymeleaf template engine.

Chapter 3, Reactive Data Access with Spring Boot, explains how we can pick up Spring Data MongoDB
as a reactive-power data store and hook it to our social media platform. You'll find out how Spring Boot
autoconfigures our app to persist data.

, Testing with Spring Boot, explains how we can write unit tests with JUnit, slice tests where
Chapter 4
small parts of our app uses real components, and full-blown embedded container testing. Also, you will
see how to write an autoconfiguration policy for a browser-driving test toolkit and test that as well.

, Developer Tools for Spring Boot Apps, puts several tools in our hands to enhance developer
Chapter 5
experience, such as DevTools, LiveReload, and connecting our IDE to the cloud.

, AMQP Messaging with Spring Boot, explains how to use RabbitMQ as our message broker
Chapter 6

and reactively build up a reliable, streaming message service between components.

, Microservices with Spring Boot, introduces Spring Cloud and the ability to break up our social
Chapter 7
media platform into smaller, more manageable apps, dynamically talking to each other.

Chapter 8 , WebSockets with Spring Boot, shows how to enhance the user experience by sending updates
to all interested parties from various microservices. You will also see how to route all WebSocket
messages through a RabbitMQ broker.

, Securing Your App with Spring Boot, lets us secure the social media platform for production
Chapter 9

with both URL-based and method-based tactics, so only registered users can get online, and only
authorized admins and owners can actually delete uploaded pictures.

, Taking Your App to Production with Spring Boot, shows us how to bundle up our application
Chapter 10

and deploy to production without breaking the bank by using profile-based configurations to distinguish
between local and cloud-based situations and creating custom properties to tailor application settings
without rewriting code for every environment.
What you need for this book
Spring Boot 2.0 requires Java Developer Kit (JDK) 8 or higher
A modern IDE (IntelliJ IDEA or Spring Tool Suite) is recommended
RabbitMQ 3.6 or higher must be installed (check out https://www.rabbitmq.com/download.html, or, when
using Mac Homebrew, brew install RabbitMQ)
MongoDB 3.0 or higher must be installed (check out https://www.mongodb.com/download-center, or, when
using Mac Homebrew, brew install MongoDB)
Who this book is for
This book is designed for both novices and experienced Spring developers. It will teach you how to
override Spring Boot's opinions and frees you from the need to define complicated configurations.
Conventions
In this book, you will find a number of text styles that distinguish between different kinds of
information. Here are some examples of these styles and an explanation of their meaning.

Code words in text, database table names, folder names, filenames, file extensions, pathnames, dummy
URLs, user input, and Twitter handles are shown as follows:

"The @Data annotation from Lombok generates getters, setters, a toString() method, an equals() method, a
hashCode() method, and a constructor for all required (that is, final) fields."

A block of code is set as follows:

public interface MyRepository {
List<Image> findAll();
}

Any command-line input or output is written as follows:

$ java -jar build/libs/learning-spring-boot-0.0.1-SNAPSHOT.jar

New terms and important words are shown in bold. Words that you see on the screen, for example, in
menus or dialog boxes, appear in the text like this: "When the first user clicks on Submit, the message
automatically appears on the second user's window."

Warnings or important notes appear like this.

Tips and tricks appear like this.

Reader feedback
Feedback from our readers is always welcome. Let us know what you think about this book--what you
liked or disliked. Reader feedback is important for us as it helps us develop titles that you will really get
the most out of.

To send us general feedback, simply email [email protected], and mention the book's title in the
subject of your message.

If there is a topic that you have expertise in and you are interested in either writing or contributing to a
book, see our author guide at www.packtpub.com/authors.
Customer support
Now that you are the proud owner of a Packt book, we have a number of things to help you to get the
most from your purchase.
Downloading the example code
You can download the example code files for this book from your account at http://www.packtpub.com. If
you purchased this book elsewhere, you can visit http://www.packtpub.com/support and register to have the
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Downloading the color images of this book
We also provide you with a PDF file that has color images of the screenshots/diagrams used in this
book. The color images will help you better understand the changes in the output. You can download
this file from https://www.packtpub.com/sites/default/files/downloads/LearningSpringBoot2.0_ColorImages.pdf.
Errata
Although we have taken every care to ensure the accuracy of our content, mistakes do happen. If you
find a mistake in one of our books--maybe a mistake in the text or the code--we would be grateful if you
could report this to us. By doing so, you can save other readers from frustration and help us improve
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To view the previously submitted errata, go to https://www.packtpub.com/books/content/support and enter the

name of the book in the search field. The required information will appear under the Errata section.
Piracy
Piracy of copyrighted material on the internet is an ongoing problem across all media. At Packt, we take
the protection of our copyright and licenses very seriously. If you come across any illegal copies of our
works in any form on the internet, please provide us with the location address or website name
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We appreciate your help in protecting our authors and our ability to bring you valuable content.
Questions
If you have a problem with any aspect of this book, you can contact us at [email protected], and we
will do our best to address the problem.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 11 West Lincoln Street,
San Francisco.
Sir,
As a lover of the sea and all that therein is, I take this opportunity to beg
leave to apply for a post in your expidition, can turn my hand to anything
that isn’t crooked. Was gold-mining at Klondike two years but give it up
owing to a frost bight but am used to dealing with rough characters.
Seeing the piece about you in the evening paper to-night I make haist to
apply and you will find me equal prompt in my dealings I have to do with
you, and satisfactory. A line to above will oblige.
Yours, truly,
J. B. Yonkers.
P. S. Terms can be arranged.

“That’s the bill-mackerel,” said Hank. “Did you ever see a

mackerel? Well, it’s always headed by a couple or so of freak
mackerel. Chaps with bills like ducks. This is the first of the shoal of
chaps that’ll be wanting to come along, with us—you’ll see.”
 CHAPTER IX

CANDON

G EORGE did.
An abject and crawling apology from the Piker, published and
paid for in next morning’s papers, restarted the publicity campaign,
and, though the press never recovered its first careless rapture, the
thing had made good and was established in the mind of the public.
The letters came in day by day, some addressed to the club, some
care of Joe Barrett, all of the same tenor. The expedition that had
aroused mild merriment in the upper circles of San Francisco was
received in dead seriousness by the middle and lower circles—even
with enthusiasm. The thing had vast appeal to the movie-red mind;
the exploits of the Dutchman, inconsiderable enough in a world
where criminal license had suddenly added cubits to its stature, had
been boomed by the press. Hank Fisher had already a name to
embroider on and “Bud” du Cane was not unknown. Letters came
from all round the Bay; from Oakland, Berkeley, Port Costa, New
York, California, Antioch, Benicia, San Rafael and Tiburon; letters
came from Monterey and all down the coast. Letters from “all sorts
and sexes” to put it in Hank’s words. Women offered to come along
as cooks, boys as “deck-hands,” a retired banker at San Jo offered to
pay to be taken along. Never in any letter except that of the “bill-
mackerel” was there a reference to terms, all these people were
ready to go for nothing but their “grub and bunk” as one gentleman
put it, and, if you wish to gauge the utility of a personality like
Hank’s, this vast and healthy wave of adventure-craving which he
had set going amongst the populace of the state is an index.
“And not one of the lot is any use,” said Hank, as he sat in the
cabin with George one day about a week before the projected start.
“I saw those people I wrote to yesterday, one had consumption,
another one had swelled head, fancied himself a duke to judge by
his talk, another was six foot seven or thereabouts, couldn’t have
taken him aboard without his head sticking out of the saloon hatch,
another guy was on a tramp from Oskosh to S’uthern California and
wanted to take the expedition en route, he was an oil prospector
and troubled with something that made him want to scratch; then
there was an Italian who’d been a count and an Irishman who’d
served in the Irish rebellion under Roger Casement, a decent chap,
but I’d just as soon take aboard a live bomb shell. We’ll just have to
make out, you and me, as after-guard—four Chinks will be enough
for a crew and I can pick them up by the handful.”
“When are the provisions and stuff coming on board?”
“Tomorrow or next day. I saw J. B. yesterday—”
“Wear Jack, ahoy!” came a voice from the wharf through the open
skylight.
“Hullo!” cried Hank. “Who’s that and what d’you want?”
A thud came on the deck followed by the voice at the companion
hatch. “May I come below?” The stairs creaked and at the saloon
door appeared a man.
The sun glow from the skylight struck him full as he stood there, a
huge, red-bearded, blue-eyed sailor man, neatly dressed in dark
serge and wearing a red necktie. His eyes were most taking and
astonishing liquid sparkling blue—the eyes of a child.
Contrasted with the hatchet-faced Hank and the sophisticated
Bud, he seemed youthful, yet he was older than either of them.
 CHAPTER X

THE RED BEARDED ONE

“H ULLO!” said Hank. “What the devil do you want?”

“Am I speaking to Mr. Fisher?” asked the newcomer,
addressing himself to the town lot speculator.
“You are.”
“You’re the man that’s going after the Dutchman?”
“Yep.”
“D’you want to catch him?”
“Oh, Lord, no,” said Hank. “I’m only going to inquire after his
health. Go on, what are you getting at?”
“Well, if you want to catch him, get on deck this instant minute
and see I’ve not been followed. Go up casual and have a look round.
Keep your eyes skinned for a man with a patch over his left eye. I’m
not funning. I mean business. Get a-deck. I tell you I’ve no time to
explain.”
Hank stared at the other for a second, then he uncoiled himself,
crossed the cabin and vanished up the companion way.
Neither George nor the bearded one spoke a word. They were
listening. Then they heard voices.
“Say, you,” came a voice from the wharf, “did y’ see a guy goin’
along here—red-whiskered fella?”
“Man with a red necktie?” came Hank’s voice.
“Yeh—he’s my pal—which way was he goin’?”
 “He was making along towards the union dock.”
Silence. The companion way creaked and Hank reappeared
standing in the cabin doorway.
“Well,” said Hank, “that’s done. I’d no sooner got on deck than a
fellow with a patch on his eye came along with kind inquiries. I’ve
sent him along. Now I must ask you for your visiting card—and
explanations.”
The stranger laughed.
“Candon’s my name,” said he. “Bob Candon. I’ll take a seat for a
minute, if you don’t mind, to get my wits together. I only blew in
yesterday afternoon, came up from S’uthard and anchored off
Tiburon and first news I had when I got ashore was about you and
the Dutchman.”
“What was your ship?” cut in Hank.
“Heart of Ireland, thirty-ton schooner, owned and run by Pat
McGinnis, last port—” Candon cut himself short. “That would be
telling,” said he, with a laugh.
Hank handed him a cigarette and lit another.
“I’m not wanting to bore into your business,” said Hank, “only I’m
giving you this straight, I’ve no time for blind man’s buff. You were
proposing to come along with us to hook the Dutchman?”
“That’s what I’m here for,” said Candon. “I don’t want you to lose
wind or time over me, I’d have you know I’m dealing straight, but
I’m mixed with a crowd that’s not straight, get me? Don’t you bother
where the Heart dropped her mud-hook last, nor how much her
business was mixed up with the Dutchman’s business. Don’t you
bother about one single thing but the proposition I’m going to put
before you, and it’s this. Ship me out of this port down south and I’ll
put in your hand every last ounce of the boodle the Dutchman’s
been collecting, for I know where it’s hid; on top of that I’ll make
you a present of the man himself for I know where he’s to be found.
That’s my part of the bargain. And now for yours. I ask nothing but
five thousand dollars in my fist when the job’s done, and to be put
ashore somewhere safe, so that those chaps on the Heart won’t be
able to get at me.”
He had been holding the cigarette unlighted. He struck a match, lit
it, took in a great volume of smoke and slowly expelled it.
“Well,” said he, “what’s your opinion on that?”
Hank was sitting almost like Rodin’s Thinker. Then he uncoiled a
bit.
“Do those guys on the Heart know where the Dutchman’s to be
found?” asked he.
“No, they don’t.”
“Do they know where the boodle is?”
“N’more than Adam.”
“Do they know you know where it is?”
“They suspect. That’s my trouble—what’s this I’m saying, ‘suspect’.
Why it’s more than that now. Now I’ve run away from them they’ll
know for certain.”
“And if they catch you?”
“They’ll drill me, sure.”
“Was that guy with the patch, McGinnis?”
“Nope—Thacker, McGinnis’s right hand man.”
Hank brooded.
Then said he: “Were you a friend of the Dutchman?”
“What you mean to ask,” said the other, “is, am I letting him
down? I’ll just tell you, the Dutchman has been my enemy, but I’m
not moving in this because I have a grouch against him. I’m playing
my own game, but it’s a straight game.”
Hank brooded a second more.
 “We’d have to hide you aboard here till we start,” said he.
“You will,” replied the other.
“Right,” said Hank. “Now will you take a rag and clean the engine
for two minutes while I have a talk to my friend here in private.”
He led the way out and came back.
“Well,” said he, “what do you think of that guy?”
“I like him,” said George.
“I like him well enough,” said Hank, “Question is about his story. It
seems plain enough. He’s come up with a crew of hoodlums who’ve
been in touch with Vanderdecken, they’ve been hunting for old man
Vanderdecken’s boodle. Nothing doing. Then they’ve left the hunt
and put in here. They had big suspicions he was in the know and
wanted the boodle for himself. He’s only been let ashore with a
nurse and he’s given her the slip. It’s all plain. Then Providence
comes in, which is us. Seems extraordinary, don’t it? Barrett
advertising us like that and all, for here we are, a sure bolt-hole for
him, advertised bigger than Heinz’s Pickles.”
“How do you mean a bolt-hole?”
“Well, look at it. Those crooks are after him like a coyote after a
prairie dog. He’s got to get out of here, he might get out in a foc’sle
if he wasn’t knifed before the ship sailed, but that wouldn’t lead him
anywhere except maybe round Cape Horn, whereas he gets a lift
back down the coast to where he knows the Dutchman has hid the
boodle and he gets five thousand dollars in his fist and a set ashore.
Then Providence comes in again, seems to me. I reckoned I’d have
to spend five thousand on this expedition and between Tyrebuck and
Barrett it won’t cost me a cent, bar the hire of four Chinks for crew,
so I can easy afford to pay him five thousand and come out winners.
Besides, he’s an extra hand himself and a good sailor man, if I’m any
judge.”
“It does seem all to fit in,” said George.
 “Well, shall we take him?” said Hank. “It’s a risk, but I reckon
we’ve got to take risks.”
“Take him,” said George.
Hank went out and returned with the other. Candon had taken off
his coat and his shirt sleeves were rolled up and his hands showed
the engine-room business he had been put on.
“Come right in,” said Hank. “We’ve concluded to take you along,
but there’s conditions.”
“Spit them out,” said Candon.
“Well, first of all I haven’t five thousand dollars to be taking down
the coast with me, but I’ll put a thousand in your fist when the job’s
done and mail you the other four to any address you like.”
“Oh, I’ll trust you for that,” said Candon. “What else?”
“Second, if we find the Dutchman’s property, it will have to go
back to the owners.”
“That’s just what I’d like best,” said Candon. “I tell you straight it
would have been a condition with me, only I took it for granted
seeing you’re out, so to speak, in the name of the law. I’m no pirate.
I’m not saying I was always of the same way of thinking, but I
reckon those ballyhooleys I’ve just left have given me a shake.”
“Well then,” said Hank, “there’s only one more condition. You’ll
help to work the ship for your bunk and board without pay.”
“Right,” said Candon, “and now, if you’ll take that styleographic
pen I see sticking out of your vest pocket and give’s a bit of paper,
we’ll draw the contract.”
Hank produced the pen and an old bill on the back of which the
“contract” was made out, under the terms of which Candon was to
receive five thousand dollars and a set ashore after the Dutchman
had been brought safe aboard the Wear Jack, also he was to take
the expedition to the spot where, to the best of his belief, was
cached the Dutchman’s plunder.
 This done, Candon went back to his engine cleaning, having
produced and handed over to Hank four ten dollar notes.
“I’ll want a toothbrush and a couple of shirts and a couple of suits
of pyjamas,” said he. “Maybe, as I can’t get ashore, you’ll get them
for me. All my truck’s on board the Heart.”
“Bud,” said Hank to his partner that night, “I hope to the Lord we
ain’t stung. Suppose the chap’s some practical joker put on us by
Barrett, or the boys at the Club.”
“Nonsense,” said George. “Where’d be the sense? Besides the
chap’s genuine. You have only to look at his face....”
 CHAPTER XI

NIGHT

T HE week before the sailing of the Wear Jack was a busy time for
the Fisher Syndicate and business was not expedited owing to
the fact that Candon had to be kept hidden. The red-bearded one
seemed happy enough, spending most of his time in the engine
room smoking cigarettes. At nights, safe with Hank in the “saloon,”
his mind disclosed itself in his conversation.
No, this was no wasp let in on them by Barrett or the Club boys.
The mind of Candon, as revealed to Hank, was as free from
crookedness as the eyes through which it looked, and on most topics
from the League of Nations to Ella Wheeler Wilcox, it was sound.
And it was not unlike the mind of Hank. It was self-educated and
their enthusiasms, from the idea of Universal Brotherhood to the
idea of the sanctity of womanhood, matched, mostly.
Candon, from what one could gather, had been a rolling stone, like
Hank, but he gave little away about himself and he was quite frank
about it.
“I’d just as soon forget myself,” said he. “I’ve been in a good many
mix-ups and I’ve missed a fortune twice through my own fault, but
I’ve come through with all my teeth and no stomach worries and
we’ll leave it at that.”
Barrett’s stores came on board and were stowed, and Hank,
through a boarding-house keeper, got his crew, four Chinamen all of
the same tong, all Lees, and bossed by a gentleman rejoicing in the
name of Lee Wong Juu. Champagne Charley, Hank labeled him.
They came tripping on board with their chests the night before
starting, vanished like shades down the foc’sle hatch and were seen
no more.
Hank, standing on the deck with George, heaved a sigh of
contentment. “Well, that’s done,” said he. “There’s nothing more to
take on board and we’re all ready for the pull out in the morning.”
“What time do you propose to start?” asked the other.
“Sunup. Barrett has got it into his head, somehow, we’re going at
noon. I didn’t tell you, but I got wind he’d arranged for a tug with a
brass band to lead us out and josh us. Can you see his face when he
finds us gone?”
They went below where the cabin lamp was lit, with Candon
reading a newspaper under it.
“The Chinks are come,” said Hank, taking his seat at the table,
and fetching out his pipe. “There’s nothing more to come in but the
mud-hook. Well, how do you feel, now we’re starting?”
“Bully,” said Candon. “I was beginning to feel like a caged canary.
You chaps don’t know what it’s been the last week. Well, let’s get
finished. There’s some truck still to be stowed in the after cabin and
I want to do a bit more tinkering at the engine. There’s a day’s work
on that engine—them cylinder rings were sure made in Hades.”
“Well, you can leave it,” said Hank. “I’m putting out at sunup. I
don’t count on that engine and you’ll have time to tinker with her on
the way down.” He stopped suddenly, raised his head, and held up a
finger. The night was warm and the skylight full open. In the dead
silence that fell on the cabin they could hear through the open
skylight the far-away rattle of a cargo winch working under the
electrics, the whistle of a ferry boat and away, far away, though
great as the voice of Behemoth, the boo of a deep sea steamer’s
siren.
“Yes,” began Hank again, gliding to the door of the saloon as he
spoke, “you can tinker with it on the way down.” He vanished, and
the others, taking his cue, kept up the talk. Then they heard him
pounce.
“What you doing here?”
“Hullo! me—I ain’t doin’ nothin’—what you gettin’ at? You lea’ me
go.”
“What you doing here, you low down scow-hunker? Answer up
before I scrag you.”
“Tell you I was doin’ nothin’. I dropped aboard to see if I couldn’t
borry a light, seein’ the shine of your skylight.”
“I’ll give you a light.”
Then they heard the quite distinctive sounds of a man being
kicked off the ship, blasphemous threats from the wharf-side—
silence.
A minute later Hank appeared, his lean face lit with the light of
battle.
“Popped my head on deck,” cried Hank, “and saw a fellow on the
wharf-side—I’ll swear it was Jake. He lit, and then I saw another one
hunched down by the skylight. You heard me kicking him off.”
“Who’s Jake?” asked Candon, who had taken his seat again at the
table.
“Watchman I fired for handing me lies more’n a fortnight ago.”
“Well,” said Candon, “the other man was Mullins, if I have my ears
on my head.”
“Who’s Mullins?”
“Black Mullins, McGinnis’ left hand. Boys, we’ve gotta get out.
How’s the wind?”
“Nor’west,” said Hank.
“And there’s a moon. Boys, we’ve gotta get right out now, get the
whaleboat over and the Chinks ready for a tow clear of the wharf.
Let’s see, the whole of the Heart crowd will be over at Tiburon, the
old Heart will be in dry dock, for she’d started a butt and there’s
weeks’ work on her, so they won’t be able to use her to chase us for
another fortnight, get me? Well, see now, that guy will be back in
Tiburon somewhere about two hours or more and he’ll rouse the
hive. He’ll have seen me, lookin’ down through the skylight, and he’ll
know you’re starting to-morrow. Not having a ship to chase us,
they’ll board us. You’ll have a boatload of gunmen alongside
somewhere about two in the morning.”
“You mean to say they’ll board us?” cried George.
“Yep.”
“But what about the police?”
“Police! Nothing. Why they’d beat it in a quick launch before the
cops had begun to remember they weren’t awake.”
“Well, let’s notify the police and have an ambush ready for them.”
“Not me,” said Candon. “I don’t want to have any dealings with
the law. Why if McGinnis and his crowd were taken, they’d swear
Lord knows what about me. Besides I’m not friends with the bulls.
I’m no crook, I’ve never looked inside a jail, but I’ve seen enough
good men done in by the law to make me shy of it.”
“But see here,” said Hank. “I can’t take her out at night. I don’t
know the lights, I’d pile her up sure.”
“I’ll take her out,” said Candon, “I’d take her out with my eyes
shut. It’s near full moon and we’ll have the ebb, what more do you
want?”
Hank turned to George.
“Let’s get out,” said George. “We don’t want a mix-up with those
people; if we get piled, why we have the boat.”
Hank turned to Candon.
“You’re sure you can do it?”
 “Sure.”
“Then come on,” said Hank. He led the way on deck.
The wharf was deserted. To the left of them lay the bay, silver
under the moonlight and spangled here and there with the lights of
shipping at anchor. Whilst Hank trimmed the side lights and Candon
attended to the binnacle light, George went forward to rout out the
Chinks. He found them finishing their supper. Lee Wong Juu was
their cook as well as boss, he had lit the galley stove on his own
initiative and made tea. They had brought provisions enough for
supper. Their chests were arranged in order, everything was in
apple-pie trim and as they sat on their bunk sides with their tin
mugs in their hands and their glabrous faces slewed round on the
intruder, they looked not unlike a company of old maids at a tea
party.
George gave his order and they rose, put away their mugs and
followed him on deck.
The whaleboat had cost Hank ninety-five dollars, second-hand. It
was not a real whaleboat, either in size, make or fittings, but good
enough for their purpose, carvel built, four-oared, with tins fixed
beneath the thwarts to help float her in case of a capsize.
Candon was standing by the boat as George came on deck.
In the rapid moments that had come on them since the spy had
been kicked off the ship, Candon had gradually gained supremacy,
without effort, one might say. The man had arisen and was rising to
the emergency like a swimmer on a wave, bearing the others with
him. He was giving orders now quietly and without fuss.
They got the boat afloat with the four Chinks in her, and, the tow
rope having been fixed, Candon got into her, having cast off the
mooring ropes. Hank took the wheel of the schooner. George,
standing silent beside Hank, heard the creak and splash of the oars.
Then came the chug and groan of the tow-rope tightening, then
slowly, almost imperceptibly the bowsprit of the Wear Jack began to
veer away from the wharf. And now to port and starboard lay the
glittering harbour water and astern the long line of the wharves
began to show with the electrics blazing here and there where they
were working cargo overtime. As the wharves receded, they stole
into a world of new sounds and lights. San Francisco began to show
her jewelry, glittering ribbons of electrics, crusts of gems; on the
port bow the lights of Oakland, far across the water, answered to the
lights of San Francisco, and across the scattered silver ferry boats
showed like running jewels. The wind from the north west came
steady and filled with the breath of the unseen sea.
“Lord!” said Hank, “how much further is he taking us? Seems like
as if he were making for Oakland.”
“He knows what he is doing,” said George.
“Sure.”
They held on.
A Chinese junk passed, with her lateen sail bellying to the wind,
and then came along a yacht, lighted and riotous as a casino, with a
jazz band playing “Suwanee.” It passed and the great quietude of
the night resumed. Still the tow kept on.
Then came a voice from alongside. Candon had cast off the rope
and was coming on board.
To George, just in that moment, the whole scene and
circumstance came as an impression never to be forgotten; the
silence following the casting off of the rope, the vast harbour
surface, glittering like a ball-room floor, where the helpless Wear
Jack lay adrift, the lights of ’Frisco and the lights of Oakland and the
secrecy and necessity for despatch lest, drifting as they were, they
should be side-swiped by some Bay boat in a hurry. But he had little
time for thought. Candon was on board, the boat was got in and the
slack of the tow-rope, and Candon at the wheel began to give his
orders with speed but without hurry.
The mainsail rose slatting against the stars, then the foresail; a
Chink cast the gaskets off the jib, whilst the Wear Jack, trembling
like an undecided and frightened thing, seemed to calm down and
take heart. The slatting of the canvas ceased. They were under way.
Candon seemed steering for Oakland, then the Oakland lights
swung to starboard and passed nearly astern. They were making for
Alcatraz. The lights of San Francisco were now to port and the city
showed immense, heaving itself against the moonlight; Nobs Hill,
Telegraph Hill, Russian Hill, all ablaze beneath the moon, slashed
with lines of light. Away beyond Angel Island showed the lights of
Tiburon.
Right under Alcatraz, Candon put the helm hard over; the canvas
thrashed and filled again and the Wear Jack settled down on her
new tack, heading for the Presidio. Close in, the helm went over
again, the canvas fought the wind and then filled on the tack for
Lime Point, the northern gate post of the Golden Gate.
The breath of the sea now came strong, spray came inboard from
the meeting of wind and ebb tide and the Wear Jack began to thrash
at the tumble coming in from the bar.
Under Lime Point she came about on the port tack, taking the
middle passage. Then beyond Pont Bonito came the tumble of the
bar. The wind was not more than a steady sailing breeze but the
long rollers coming in from Japan gave them all the trouble they
wanted, though the Wear Jack, proving her good qualities, shipped
scarcely a bucket full. Then the sea smoothed down to a glassy
breeze-spangled swell and the schooner, with the loom of the land
far on her port quarter, spread her wings beneath the moon for the
south.
 CHAPTER XII

OUT

C ANDON handed the wheel over to Hank. “Well, we’re out,” said
he. “Keep her as she goes, the coast’s a straight line down to
Point San Pedro, and I don’t want to clear it by more than ten miles.”
He lit a pipe and walked to the port rail, where he stood with the
pipe in his mouth and his hands on the rail looking at the land.
George stood beside him. The crew had vanished to the foc’sle,
now that everything was comfortable, leaving the deck to the three
white men; no watches had been picked nor was there a look-out.
George remarked on the fact and Candon laughed.
“I’d just as soon leave the Chinks below,” said he, “and run her
ourselves for the rest of the watch. Half a man could handle her as
the wind is, and as for a look-out, why I reckon nothing could sink
us to-night. Boys, I’m sure bughouse, I never took a ship out of
’Frisco bay before two hours ago.”
“You what!” said George.
“What I’m telling you. It came on me to do it and I did it. I’ve
been in and out often enough, but never at the wheel nor
navigating. I had the lay of the place in my head but it was a near
touch.”
Hank at the wheel gave a laugh that sounded like a cough.
“I felt it in my bones,” said Hank.
“What?” asked Candon.
“Why that you were driving out half blind; as near as paint you
had us on to Alcatraz and you all but rammed the Presidio. I was
standing on my toes wanting to yell ‘Put your helm over,’ but I kept
my head shut, didn’t want to rattle you.”
“Bughouse, clean bughouse,” said Candon. “Makes me sweat in
the palms of my hands now I’ve done it, but I tell you boys, I
couldn’t have missed. Going by night like that one can’t judge
distance and as for the lights, they’d better have been away, but I
couldn’t have missed, I was so certain sure of myself. It comes on
me like that at times, I get lifted above myself, somehow or
another.”
“I’m the same way myself,” said Hank, “it comes on me as if I got
light-headed and I’m never far wrong if I let myself go. Bud here will
tell you I rushed this expedition through more by instinct than
anything else—didn’t I, Bud?”
Bud assented, unenthusiastically.
George Harley du Cane, out and away now with the Pacific
beneath him and his eyes fixed on the far-off loom of the land, was
thinking. He had recognized, even before starting, that Hank and
Candon were, temperamentally, pretty much birds of the same
feather. Not only had their discussions as to socialism and so forth
seemed to him pretty equally crazy, but he had recognized, in a dim
sort of manner, that they infected one another and that their
“bughouse” qualities were not diminished by juxtaposition. However,
safe in port, the sanity or insanity of his companions, expressed only
in conversation about abstract and uninteresting affairs, did not
seem to matter. Out here it was different, somehow, especially after
the exhibition Candon had just given them of daring carried to the
limits of craziness. And who was Candon, anyhow? A likable man,
sure enough, but the confessed associate of more than shady
characters, and they had accepted this man on his face value, as a
pilot in an adventure that was sure to be dangerous, considering the
character of the man they were out to hunt.
Well, there was not a bit of use bothering. He had gone into the
business with his eyes open. There he was, wealthy, at ease with all
the world, talking to those men in the club, when in came Hank with
his lunacy, saying he was going to catch Vanderdecken. He had
followed the Rat Trap Inventor out, taken his arm and insisted on
becoming part and parcel of his plans. Why? He could not tell why.
And now he was tied up in a venture with Chinks and two cranks; a
venture which, if it failed, would make him ridiculous, if it succeeded
might make him a corpse. He might now have been respectably
shooting in the Rockies only for his own stupidity.
Then, all of a sudden, came a question to his mind, “Would you
sooner be respectably shooting in the Rockies or here?” Followed by
the surprising and immediate answer, “Here.” Bughouse—clean
bughouse—but the fact remained.
It was now getting on for two in the morning, and he went below,
leaving the deck to the others. They intended carrying on till four,
and then rousing the crew up for the morning watch.
They told him they would call him when they wanted him and he
turned in, dropping to sleep the instant his head touched the pillow.
When he awoke it was daylight, water dazzles were at play on the
Venesta panellings, as the early sunlight through the portholes
shifted to the lift of the swell, snores from the two other occupied
bunks seemed to keep time to the movement of the Wear Jack and
from the topmost starboard bunk, Hank’s pyjama-clad leg hung like
the leg of a dead man.
The whole of the after-guard had turned in, leaving apparently the
schooner to run herself. He turned out and without stopping to wake
the others came hurriedly up the companion way on deck.
 CHAPTER XIII

THE BAY OF WHALES

T HE sun was up and away to port lay California, lifting her hills to
heaven against the morning splendour, to starboard, a mile or so
away, a big freighter, in ballast and showing the kick of her propeller,
was pounding along north with the sunlight on her bridge canvas.
Even at that distance George could hear the thud of her screw like
the beating of a heart.
A Chinaman was at the helm of the Wear Jack, Champagne
Charley no less, and forward another celestial was emptying a slush
tub over the port rail.
George nodded to the helmsman, and then, taking his seat on the
skylight edge, contemplated the coast.
George’s yachting experience had been mainly confined to the
Bay. He could steer a boat under sail, but of deep sea work and
cruising in big yachts he knew practically nothing. Still, even to his
uninitiated mind, this thing seemed wrong. Candon and Hank had
evidently left the deck at the beginning of the morning watch, that is
to say four o’clock, leaving the Chinks to run the show. They had
been running it for three hours or so and doing it satisfactorily, to all
appearances. Still it didn’t seem right.
He determined to go for the other two and give them a piece of
his mind and then, when, a few minutes later, they came on deck
yawning and arrayed in their pyjamas, he didn’t. They seemed so
perfectly satisfied with themselves and things in general that it was
beyond him to start complaining. Instead he went down and tubbed
in the bathroom. An hour later, as he was seated at breakfast with
the two others, his whole attitude of mind towards “Chinks” had
changed, for the schooner was running on her course with scarcely a
tremor of the tell-tale compass, the breakfast was set as if by a
parlour-maid, and the ham and eggs were done to perfection. More
than that, they were waited upon by a waiter who knew his
business, for when he had done handing things round, he vanished
without a word and left them to talk.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Candon, in reply to a remark of George’s.
“Those Chinks could run this packet by themselves. When a
Chinaman signs on as an A. B., he is one. He doesn’t pretend to be
what he isn’t, not on a ship running out of ’Frisco anyhow, and he’s
more, every Chinaman’s a cook and a laundress and it’s ten to one
he’s a tailor as well. I tell you, when I think of what one Chink can
do and what one white man generally can’t, I get frightened for the
whites.” Hank was cutting in, and an argument on the colour
question between these two was prevented only by George
remembering something of more immediate moment.
“Look here,” said he to Candon, “can’t you tell us more about
Vanderdecken now we’re out. What I mean to say is the plans you
have about him. Where are we going, anyway?”
“South,” said Candon.
“I know that,” said George, “but where south? South’s a big
place.”
“It is,” said the other; “too big for guessing, but now we’re out
and I’m going to put you wise. First of all, I promised you to put this
guy’s boodle into your hands, and second I promised you the guy
himself. I hung off from telling you the location till you’d done your
part of the contract and got me out away from the McGinnis crowd.
Well, you’ve done your part and here’s mine. The place I’m taking
you is known by the Mexicans as the Bay of Whales.”
“The Mexicans!” said George.
“Yep. We’ve got to turn the corner of Lower California, that’s to
say Cape St. Lucas, then out across the Bay of California for the
Mexican coast and the Bay of Whales. It’s away above Jalisco. It’s
worth seeing. I don’t know how it is, maybe it’s the currents or the
winds or just a liking for a quiet burying ground, but every old
sulphur bottom that’s died between here and Timbuctoo seems to
have laid his bones there. There’s a Mexican superstition about the
place, maybe on account of the bones, but no one ever goes there.
It’s the lonesomest place on God’s footstool, the shore-along ships
keep clear of it and it’s all reefs beyond the sand of the bay so you
don’t get ships putting in. I tell you, you could photograph the
lonesomeness. Well there the boodle is and there you’ll put your
hands on the guy you want.”
Said Hank: “Look here, B. C.”—Candon had come down to initials
after the manner of ’Frisco. “How did old man Vanderdecken make
out, anyway. What I’m getting at is this: I figured his fishing grounds
to be the Channel Islands and north and south of there, but that’s a
good long way from St. Lucas.”
“That’s so,” said Candon. “Well, I’ll tell you, right along till near the
end he used to keep the stuff he got aboard his own hooker. You’re
right, his lay was the Channel Islands. But finding he’d made the
place too hot for himself all right along down the American
seaboard, and expectin’ to be searched, he did a dive for the bay I
told you of and there he cached the stuff, and I’m the only man
beside himself that knows where the cache is.
“There, I’ve told you that much. I’m not going to say how I got so
thick with him as to know his plans and dispositions. I just ask you
to take B. C.’s word that the goods are according to the manifest.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Hank, “I don’t want to dig into your
business, all I want’s the Dutchman, and to put my hand on his
shoulder.”
“And so you shall,” said B. C., “’less he dies before we get there.”
They came up and, Candon taking the wheel, the two Chinamen
who were holding the deck dived below. An hour later, the Chinks
being called up, watches were picked, George falling to Hank,
Champagne Charley to Candon.
 Candon being the most knowledgeable man and the best sailor, it
was agreed that he should work the ship.
“You can’t have two heads,” said Hank, “and I reckon yours is
better than mine where navigating her is concerned.”
 CHAPTER XIV

ST. NICOLAS

T HE Kuro Shiwo current drives northward up the coast of Japan,

crosses the Pacific and comes down the Pacific Coast of America,
bathing the Channel Islands and giving them their equable
temperature. This great current is a world of its own; it has its kelp
forests, where the shark hides, like a tiger, and its own peculiar
people, led by the great swordfish of Japan. Japan not only sends
her swordsmen of the sea to keep this moving street-like world, she
lends her colours, in blues vivid and surprising as the skies and
waters of her shadowless pictures.
One morning, shortly after sunrise, George, fast asleep in his
bunk, was hauled out by Hank to “see the Islands.” He tumbled out
and, just as he was, in his pyjamas, followed on deck.
Between the Kuro Shiwo and the wind the Wear Jack was making
a good ten knots. Pont Concepcion on the mainland lay almost
astern, and the sun, with his feet still on the mountains beyond
Santa Barbara, was chasing to death a fog whose last banners were
fluttering amidst the foot hills.
Away ahead, like vast ships under press of sail, rode the San
Lucas Islands, San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, their fog-filled
cañons white in the sunlight.
Later in the morning, with the San Lucas Islands far astern, San
Nicolas showed up like a flake of spar on the horizon to the south; to
the sou’-east appeared a trace of the mountains of Santa Catalina.
Candon, who was on deck talking to George, pointed towards
Santa Catalina. “Looks pretty lonely, don’t it?” said he. “Well, that
place is simply swarming with millionaires. Say, you’re something in
that way yourself, aren’t you? So I ought to keep my head muzzled,
but you’ll understand. I’m not going against you, but things in
general. I reckon if you’d ever roomed in Tallis Street, ’Frisco, you’d
know what I mean. I’ve seen big poverty and when I see millionaires
sunning themselves, it gets my goat—now you know what I’m gettin’
at.”
“Look here, B. C.,” said George, “cut it out. Most of the millionaires
I know live on pap and pills and work like gun mules—”
“Do you?” asked Candon laughing.
“No, I don’t, but I expect I will some time; anyhow, one fool
exception doesn’t count. What I’m getting at is this, chaps like you
and Hank get it in your heads that the bigger a man’s pile is, the
more he enjoys himself. It’s the other way about, seems to me; also
that the rich man lives in a world of his own with laws of his own—”
“So he does,” said the other. “Now you listen to me. When
Prohibition started, how did the poor man stand? Dry, that’s how he
stood, looking at the other people with their cellars full of drink.
They knew the law was coming and they laid in.”
“That’s true,” said George.
“It is,” said Candon, “and some day, maybe, I’ll tell you a yarn
about how it hit me once.”
Hank came on deck and stood with eyes shaded, looking at the
ghost of Santa Catalina on the sky line. “There she is,” said Hank.
“You can almost see the flags waving and hear the bands playing.
Bud, didn’t you ever go fishing down that way? I reckon it was that
place gave Vanderdecken his first pull towards thievery, seeing the
water is thick with Bank Presidents and Wheat Cornerers only
waiting to be collected for ransom. Say, B. C., if you know anything
about old Vanderdecken, tell us why he didn’t hold the folks he
caught to ransom as well as picking the diamonds and money off
them. That’s what I’d have done. I would sure. Hullo!”
 A leaping tuna, as long as a man and curved like a sword, left the
sea on the starboard bow, showed its colours to the sun, and
vanished with a splash.
“Tuna,” said Candon.
“Well, what’s he doing here?” asked Hank, “he’s out of his waters,
this ain’t the tuna grounds.”
“How do you know?” asked George.
“Lord, oughtn’t I to know,” replied Hank. “Why I was on the fish
commission ship on this section of the Pacific Coast, sounding and
dredging and taking specimens of the fish and the weeds and Lord
knows what all. That was five years ago, but I reckon the tuna
grounds haven’t altered since then.”
“They lie south of San Clemente, don’t they?” said Candon.
“They do not, you’re thinking of albacore. The tuna grounds are
east of Santa Catalina mostly, close to Avalon. Why, I know all that
place’s well as I know my own office. I’ve got a hellnation memory
for facts and I could reel off to you the lie of the fishing grounds
most all along the coast. Right from Rocky Point on the mainland the
fish begin running in shoals. Benito you get mostly at Rocky Point,
then albacore; but if you strike out for the Islands you’ll begin to get
big things.”
“Whales?” asked George.
“Whales mostly stick to the Santa Barbara channel, there aren’t
many now, but you get killers and sulphur bottoms and gray whales
—sharks, too.”
Hank lit a cigarette and leaning on the port rail looked across the
water to the east. Then he came forward a bit and looked ahead.
Away ahead and a bit to westward something showed. It was San
Nicolas, San Nicolas no longer sharply defined like a flame of spar,
but with its head in a turban of new-formed cloud. This island, eight
or nine miles long, forms the western outpost of the Channel
Islands. Unprotected, like them, by Port Concepcion, it receives the
full force of wind and weather.
The others came close to Hank.
“That’s her,” said Hank, “that’s San Nicolas. Ever been ashore
there, B. C.?”
“Not such a fool,” said Candon. “I’ve cruised about these waters a
good bit, but I’ve never met a man who wanted to put his foot
there. It’s all wind and sand for one thing.”
“Well,” said Hank, “I’ve been thinking, from what I know of the
place, that Vanderdecken may have used San Nicolas for one of his
ports of call. What do you say, B. C.?”
“Who knows?” said Candon.
“Did you land on San Nicolas?” asked George.
“Oh yes; we were hanging off the kelp beds three or four days.”
“I’d like to land there,” said George.
“Well, it’s easily done,” said Hank. “We could tie up the kelp for
the matter of that, only I’m afraid the Wear Jack’s a bit too big. She
might drag out. Away down, further south, the kelp vines run to a
thousand foot long and you could most moor a battleship to them,
but it’s different here. However, we can anchor if you want to. What
do you say, B. C.?”
“I’m with you,” said Candon. “We have plenty of time and a day
won’t matter.”
“Not a cent,” said George.
Candon went and leaned on the starboard rail. For the last two
days, in fact, ever since he had given away the whereabouts of
Vanderdecken’s cache, he had seemed at times depressed.
Sometimes he would be in high good spirits and sometimes moping
and silent. Hank had noticed it first and he spoke of it now as he and
George went forward to the bow, where they hung watching the
boost of the water and the foam gouts like marble shavings on
lazalite.
“Notice B. C. has the dumps again,” said Hank. “I wonder what’s
working on him? Maybe he feels himself a skunk leading us on to old
man Vanderdecken.”
“He said that was all right,” said George, “said he was acting
perfectly straight and that the man was his enemy. Y’know, I believe
in B. C.”
“So do I,” said Hank, “but what in the nation’s he moulting about,
that’s what I want to know. I take it it’s just sensitiveness; even
though the Dutchman is his enemy, he don’t like giving him away. I
can understand it.”
“I can’t quite make him out,” said George, “he’s intelligent and has
fine ideas about things, yet he always seems to have lived pretty
rough—”
“And what’s the harm of that,” cut in Hank. “Why, it’s the guys that
have lived pretty rough as you call it that are the only educated
citizens as far as I can make out. They’ve had their noses rubbed
into the world. Why look at me—I’m not saying I’m much, but all
I’ve learned of any good to me hasn’t come out of class-rooms or
colleges. Mind you, I’m not against them, I don’t say they’re no use,
but I do say what makes a man is what he rubs against.”
“He seems to have been rubbing against some pretty queer
characters to judge by the Heart of Ireland lot,” said George.
“That’s my point,” said Hank. “They’ve turned him respectable.
There’s many a man would have gone to the bad only he’s been
frightened off it by the toughs he’s met. They’re better than Sunday
school books. I know, for I’ve been there.”
An hour later, San Nicolas was plain before them and an hour
before sunset Beggs Rock was on the starboard bow and only a mile
away. San Nicolas, itself close to them, now showed its peak, nine
hundred feet high with its changeless turban of cloud, rosy gold in
the evening glow. From the peak the island spilled away showing
cleft and cañon and high ground treeless and devoid of life.
They cast anchor just outside the kelp ring. The sun was just
leaving the sea. Nothing showed but the brown lateen sails of a
Chinese junk, standing in shore about two miles away. She rounded
a promontory and vanished from sight.
“That’s a Chow fishing boat,” said Hank. “They go scraping along
all down this coast, hunting for abalones and turtle and whatever
they can lay their hands on.”
“That’s so,” said Candon, “I’ve met in with them right down to the
Gulf of California and beyond. It’s against the law to take abalones in
most places round here, but much they care.”
“They’d lay hands on any old thing,” said Hank. “Wonder what that
crowd is doing here?”
The morrow was to tell him.
 CHAPTER XV

WHAT THE CHINKS WERE DOING

T HEY had fixed to row ashore after breakfast but fishing held
them till afternoon. Candon, not keen on the business of
climbing over rocks, remained behind to finish tinkering at the
engine which he had almost got into working order.
Usually there is a big swell running here, but to-day there was
only a gentle heave lifting the long green vine tendrils of the kelp. It
was like rowing over a forest. On the beach they left the boat to the
two Chinamen who had rowed them off and, Hank leading the way,
they started to the right towards the great sand spit that runs into
the sea for half a mile or more.
A Farallone cormorant, circling in the blue above, seemed to watch
them; it passed with a cry, leaving the sky empty and nothing to
hear but the wash of the sea on the beaches and far off an
occasional gull’s voice from the spit. Reaching a great forward
leaning rock, they took their seats in the shade of it to rest and light
their pipes. The sand lay before them, jutting into the kelp-oily sea
and beyond the kelp the blue of the kuro shiwo. The Wear Jack was
out of sight, the horizon seemed infinitely far and of a world where
men were not or from whence men had departed for ever.
“Say, Bud,” said Hank, leaning on his side with a contented sigh,
“ain’t this great!”
“Which?” asked Bud.
“The lonesomeness. Listen to the gulls, don’t they make you feel
just melancholy.”
“Do you like to feel melancholy?”
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