Sam Steele's Adventures on Land and Sea by L. Frank Baum

When the two-seated spring wagon drew up before the tavern door quite a crowd of idle villagers assembled to see us off, and among them I noticed my father's old sailor, Ned Britton. Uncle Naboth climbed aboard at once, but I stayed to shake the hands held out to me and to thank the Batteraft people for their hearty wishes for my future prosperity. I think they were sorry to see me go, and I know I felt a sudden pang of regret at parting from the place where I had lived so long and the simple villagers who had been my friends.

When at last I mounted to the rear seat of the wagon and sat beside my uncle, I was astonished to find Ned Britton established beside the driver.

"Are you going with us? " I asked.

The sailor nodded.

"It's like this," remarked Mr. Perkins, as we rolled away from the tavern, "this man belonged to my old partner, Cap'n Steele, an' stuck to his ship 'til she went down. Also he's put himself out to come here an' tell us the news, and it ain't every sailor as'll take the trouble to do such a job. Therefore, Ned Britton bein' at present without a ship, I've asked him to take a berth aboard the ‘Flipper."

"That was kind of you, Uncle," I said, pleased at this evidence of my relative's kindly nature.

"An honest sailor ain't to be sneezed at," continued Uncle Naboth, with one of his quaint winks. "If Ned Britton were faithful to the ‘Saracen' he'll be faithful to the ‘Flipper. ' An' that's the sort o' man we want."

Britton doubtless overheard every word of this eulogy, but he gazed stolidly ahead and paid no attention to my uncle's words of praise.

We reached the railway station in ample time for the train, and soon were whirling away on our long journey into the golden West.

No incident worthy of note occurred on our way across the continent, although I might record a bit of diplomacy on the part of Uncle Naboth that illustrates the peculiar shrewdness I have always found coupled with his native simplicity.

Just before our train drew into Chicago, where we were to change cars and spend the best part of a day, my uncle slipped into my hand a long, fat pocket-book, saying:

"Hide that in your pocket, Sam, and button it up tight."

"What's your idea, Uncle Nabe? " I asked.

"Why, we're comin' to the wickedest city in all the world, accordin' to the preachers; an' if it ain't that, it's bad enough, in all conscience. There's robbers an' hold-up men by the thousands, an' if one of 'em got hold of me I'd be busted in half a second. But none of 'em would think of holdin' up a boy like you; so the money's safe in your pocket, if you don't go an' lose it."

"I'll try not to do that, sir," I returned; but all during the day the possession of the big pocket-book made me nervous and uneasy. I constantly felt of my breast to see that the money was still safe, and it is a wonder my actions did not betray to some sly thief the fact that I was concealing the combined wealth of our little party.

No attempt was made to rob us, however, either at Chicago or during the remainder of the journey to the Pacific coast, and we arrived at our destination safely and in good spirits.

Uncle Naboth seemed especially pleased to reach San Francisco again.

"This car travellin'," he said, "is good enough for landsmen that don't know of anything better; but I'd rather spend a month at sea than a night in one of them stuffy, dangerous cars, that are likely to run off'n the track any minute."

Ned Britton and I accompanied Mr. Perkins to a modest but respectable lodging-house near the bay, where we secured rooms and partook of a hearty breakfast. Then we took a long walk, and I got my first sight of the famous "Golden Gate. " I was surprised at the great quantity of shipping in the bay, and as I looked over the hundreds of craft at anchor I wondered curiously which was the "Flipper," of which I was part owner-the gallant ship whose praises Uncle Naboth had sung so persistently ever since we left Batteraft.

After luncheon we hired a small boat, and Ned Britton undertook to row us aboard the "Flipper," which had been hidden from our view by a point of land. I own that after my uncle's glowing descriptions of her I expected to see a most beautiful schooner, with lines even nobler than those of the grand old "Saracen," which had been my father's pride for so many years. So my disappointment may be imagined when we drew up to a grimy looking vessel of some six hundred tons, with discolored sails, weather-worn rigging and a glaring need of fresh paint.