Gangway!

    Roscoe was still antsy in Francis's presence but he was capable of simple sentences. "All set," he said. "I got six guys to handle the ship. The rest of us can pitch in. I mean, we don't want to have to split with too many guys."

    "You split up your five thousand however you want."

    "Yeah."

    "Now tomorrow the New World's due to leave for Sacramento at seven in the morning. She won't be back till tomorrow night sometime. That gives us plenty of time. As soon as she's pulled out, I want you to move Captain Flagway's ship to the New World's pier."

    "No problem."

    Vangie sat shaking her head. It was never going to work.

    "Now," Gabe said. "Who knows about explosives?"

    They all looked at one another.

    "Nobody?" Gabe shook his head. "I'm in the middle of mining country," he said, "and I'm at a table with four people, and not one of them knows anything about explosives. You know what the odds are against that?"

    Nobody seemed to know that either.

    Vangie began to feel a little better.

    Then Gabe dashed it. "Well we can't bring in any more new guys at this stage. Ittzy, you're it."

    Vangie jerked her head around to stare at him. "What?"

    "Sure. Ittzy's our demolition man-we know he's safe. He'll handle the dynamite and he won't get hurt, right?"

    Roscoe said, "The what?"

    "Dynamite. Some guy invented it over in Sweden. It's a stick explosive. A lot safer to handle than nitroglycerine and a lot bigger bang than blasting powder." Gabe turned to Vangie. "We'll have to get Ittzy a book. You get a book for him, okay?"

    "A book?"

    "On dynamite."

    "A book on dynamite? You want it at the Mint at three o'clock in the morning?"

    "Right," Gabe said, gri

    "It's all set, old cock."

    "Think you ought to double-check it just once more?"

    "I suppose it couldn't hurt."

    "Well everything depends on that, you know."

    "Rest assured, old cock."

    Francis went, and Roscoe became much calmer. He said, "You want the ship moved tomorrow, you must be ready to go."

    "I am, if your brother's got time to be here by then."

    "He'll be here. I been in touch with him."

    Vangie brooded unhappily at both of them. She didn't want Gabe to be ready to go, and she especially didn't want anybody having anything to do with Roscoe's brother Percival Arafoot, about whom folks said there was moss growing down his north side.

    Gabe said, "The Mint's about to start stamping out coins in the next week or two. That means they're loaded with raw gold now… ingots. That's what we want. There must be upwards of a million in that vault right now."

    "A million," Roscoe said, and his face changed.

    Vangie closed her eyes. She felt more frightened than she'd ever been. During the preparations the reality of it had receded, but now it was staring her smack in the face. "Gabe, you're going to spend the rest of your life in prison."

    "Aagh."

    "You've seen the guards. The locks. Everything. You know it can't be done."

    "My plan's guaranteed."

    "But you saw how many guards they've got, you saw the guns, you saw…"

    "I saw the future," Gabe said, "and in it I am very rich."

    Sudden sirens started up: fire engine bells. They tore by the window.

    Ittzy said mildly, "Seems like a lot of fires lately."

    Vangie said dismally, "Then you're definitely going through with it."

    "Yeah. And I'll need some things."

    She sighed. "Another wagon?"

    "No, as a matter of fact. The Mint's got its own wagons, and they're built for the weight. We'll use one of theirs."

    "Then what do we need?"

    "I'm glad you said we."

    She shook her head.

    Gabe said, "We'll want the book for Ittzy."

    "Check."

    "And laughing gas."

    "Laughing gas," she said.

    "Like the dentists use. Two canisters. And half a dozen sticks of dynamite."

    "Dynamite," she said.

    "Half a dozen sticks. And a balloon."

    "A balloon?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

    The morning of the Great Mint Robbery the fog rolled in very thick and white across the Bay, covering the world as though with the ghost of a great snow. Voices were muffled on the streets, but footsteps sounded with u

    Captain Flagway leaned on the taffrail of the San Andreas, a pipe in his mouth and a fishing rod in his hands. The line extended down toward the water from the end of the rod, disappearing into the fog at just about the level of the captain's boots; he had to take it on faith that the other end was actually in the water, occupying itself with the business of getting him breakfast.

    It was all well and good to be involved in a major robbery scheme, where big numbers like 'one million dollars' were tossed around like apples, but in the meantime life went on. Reality was reality, and a man had to arrange for his own breakfast.

    Would the robbery ever actually take place? Would the captain ever see Baltimore again, his Daddy, and his Daddy's drugstore? Would the harbor master seize the San Andreas and thus rob Captain Flagway of the very roof over his head? He stood at the rail, musing on these questions, puffing from time to time on his pipe and occasionally jiggling a bit at the fishing rod, while the fog rolled like great imaginary pillows and his stomach growled gently about the lack of breakfast.

    He didn't know he'd been boarded until he heard the clump of boots right behind him. He turned, startled, and out of the fog stamped Roscoe Arafoot and half a dozen toughs who looked like fugitives from Yuma Penitentiary. "Oh!" Captain Flagway said-a tiny cry lost in the fog-and dropped his pole in the drink.

    Roscoe said, "We're supposed to move the ship now."

    "Oh," Captain Flagway said. He'd thought they were here to crimp him. "Yes," he said, and swallowed. "Well, I'll just…" He pointed in several directions, cleared his throat, twitched and smiled aimlessly, scampering out of their way.

    He felt a bit safer in his cabin, with the door more or less locked. That is, the door did have a lock, but a five-year-old child could have gotten through it by leaning on it. Once, off the coast of Peru, a high wind had blown that door open while it was locked. Still, it was the thought that counted, and it relieved the captain's mind somewhat to be able to throw that useless bolt.

    Next to the brave door was a porthole, with an all-too-clear view of the deck. The captain stood peeking out this porthole and watched obscure figures moving out there in the fog. At least none of them were moving in his direction.

    The fog began to lift as the sails were raised, and soon the full glory of the San Andreas could be seen in the thin translucent light of a pale morning sun. The ship's sails looked like patchwork quilts. She tended to heel over at a steep angle on even absolutely calm water, and the bow preferred to dig itself through the water rather than sail over it.