:02:04
By the deep eight and a sandy bottom, sir.
:02:08
- Stand by the anchor.
- Aye, sir. Standing by.
:02:14
Right ahead, sir.
:02:19
- I see it. Right over there.
- We're here, boys!
:02:24
Ahoy!
:02:27
Be quiet down there.
:02:31
- Who are you?
- The Flying Cloud.
:02:35
220 days out of New York...
:02:38
...and 15 days trying to find your blasted harbor.
:02:42
Nobody asked you to come.
:02:44
You got anything
in this hog-end of the world except fog?
:02:48
Sure! We've got gold, mountains of gold!
:02:55
What are our chances?
:02:57
You're just in time. We're all humpbacked
carrying nuggets around.
:03:04
- Where are you going, Jerry?
- To the promised land!
:03:10
Man overboard!
:03:12
Pilot boat, ahoy!
Man overboard! Please pick him up!
:03:20
There they are at last, Miss Rutledge.
The will-o'-the-wisp lights of fortune.
:03:24
San Francisco,
the latest newborn of a great republic.
:03:28
I see a lot of fog and a few lights.
:03:31
I like it when life's hidden.
:03:33
It gives you a chance to imagine nice things.
:03:37
Nicer than they are.
:03:41
Listen to them.
:03:43
Men like to yell, don't they?
:03:45
They imagine they're millionaires already.
:03:48
More than that.
They've all left lives behind they didn't like.
:03:51
They all dream of being reborn in the new land.
:03:54
Do they? Or do they dream of gold?
:03:57
No, Miss Rutledge.
:03:59
Behind that fog lies
not only sand filled with gold...