One Sunday morning, Charley received a telephone call from a friend in Collinsville, who told him that the full force of fishermen was out with its nets.
So when we had hooked ten nets, with ten boats containing twenty men streaming along behind us, we veered to the left out of the fleet and headed toward Collinsville.
So we raced along, behind us a howling, screaming bedlam of wrathful Greeks, Collinsville ahead, and bullets spat-spatting all around us.
"Ay tank we go into Collinsville yust der same," he said.
We had a hornet's nest on our hands, and to stop at Collinsville would be to have it about our ears.
We were right in at Collinsville then, and went foaming by within biscuit-toss of the wharf.
The tiny white houses of Collinsville, which they were nearing, disappeared behind a low island, though the Montezuma Hills, with their long, low, restful lines, slumbered on the horizon apparently as far away as ever.
As the Roamer passed the mouth of Montezuma Slough and entered the Sacramento, they came upon Collinsville close at hand.