A Bad Combination

We picked up a pilot outside the Lewes breakwater a man of few words.
I told him only the outlines of our story, and I believe he half
discredited me at first. God knows, I was not a creditable object.
When I took him aft and showed him the jolly-boat, he realized, at
last, that he was face to face with a great tragedy, and paid it the
tribute of throwing away his cigar.

He suggested our raising the yellow plague flag; and this we did,
with a ready response from the quarantine officer. The quarantine
officer came out in a power-boat, and mounted the ladder; and from
that moment my command of the Ella ceased. Turner, immaculately
dressed, pale, distinguished, member of the yacht club and partner
in the Turner line, met him at the rail, and conducted him, with a
sort of chastened affability, to the cabin.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, terrified with what had gone by and
what was yet to come, unshaven and unkempt, the men gathered on the
forecastle-head and waited.

The conference below lasted perhaps an hour. At the end of that
time the quarantine officer came up and shouted a direction from
below, as a result of which the jolly-boat was cut loose, and,
towed by the tug, taken to the quarantine station. There was an
argument, I believe, between Turner and the officer, as to allowing
us to proceed up the river without waiting for the police. Turner
prevailed, however, and, from the time we hoisted the yellow flag,
we were on our way to the city, a tug panting beside us, urging
the broad and comfortable lines of the old cargo boat to a
semblance of speed.