Barbary Coast

By the deep eight and a sandy bottom, sir.
- Stand by the anchor.
- Aye, sir. Standing by.

Right ahead, sir.
- I see it. Right over there.
- We're here, boys!

Be quiet down there.
- Who are you?
- The Flying Cloud.

220 days out of New York...
...and 15 days trying to find your blasted harbor.
Nobody asked you to come.
You got anything
in this hog-end of the world except fog?

Sure! We've got gold, mountains of gold!
What are our chances?
You're just in time. We're all humpbacked
carrying nuggets around.

- Where are you going, Jerry?
- To the promised land!

Man overboard!
Pilot boat, ahoy!
Man overboard! Please pick him up!

There they are at last, Miss Rutledge.
The will-o'-the-wisp lights of fortune.

San Francisco,
the latest newborn of a great republic.

I see a lot of fog and a few lights.
I like it when life's hidden.
It gives you a chance to imagine nice things.
Nicer than they are.
Listen to them.
Men like to yell, don't they?
They imagine they're millionaires already.
More than that.
They've all left lives behind they didn't like.

They all dream of being reborn in the new land.
Do they? Or do they dream of gold?
No, Miss Rutledge.
Behind that fog lies
not only sand filled with gold...