Joe nodded his head.
"Then take these oars, and don't make a racket."
'Frisco Kid took the second pair, while French Pete steered. Joe noticed
that the oars were muffled with sennit, and that even the rowlock sockets
were protected with leather. It was impossible to make a noise except by
a mis-stroke, and Joe had learned to row on Lake Merrit well enough to
avoid that. They followed in the wake of the first boat, and, glancing
aside, he saw they were running along the length of a pier which jutted
out from the land. A couple of ships, with riding-lanterns burning
brightly, were moored to it, but they kept just beyond the edge of the
light. He stopped rowing at the whispered command of 'Frisco Kid. Then
the boats grounded like ghosts on a tiny beach, and they clambered out.
Joe followed the men, who picked their way carefully up a twenty-foot
bank. At the top he found himself on a narrow railway track which ran
between huge piles of rusty scrap-iron. These piles, separated by tracks,
extended in every direction he could not tell how far, though in the
distance he could see the vague outlines of some great factory-like
building. The men began to carry loads of the iron down to the beach,
and French Pete, gripping him by the arm and again warning him not to
make any noise, told him to do likewise.
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