sently I saw him
stop and look into the shadows around him. I saw a frown come on his
face, I saw his features tighten. So he stood for some moments. Then he
turned and walked quickly out. A lump had risen in my throat, for I
thought I knew what he had seen.

"The Phantom Ship" became my title. A fine contrast to the sea hog, I
thought. I asked Dad endless questions at night about the old days not
only here, but all up along the coast of New England, and hungrily I
listened while he glorified the rich life and color of those seaport
towns now gray, those wharves now rotting and covered with moss. He
glorified the spacious homes of the men who had ordered their captains
to search the Far East for the rugs and the curtains, the chairs and the
tables, the dishes, the vase, the silks and the laces, the silver and
gold and precious stones with which those audacious old houses were
stored. He glorified the ships themselves. From the quarter decks of our
clippers, those marvels of cleanliness and speed, he told how those
miraculous captains had issued their orders to Yankee sailors, brawny,
deep-chested, keen-eyed and strong-limbed. He told what perils they had
faced far out on the Atlantic--"the Roaring Forties" those waters were
called!

"Yes, boy, in those days ships had men!"

In my room I eagerly wrote it all down and added what I myself could
remember. Here from my bedroom window I tried to see what I had seen as
a boy, the immaculate white of the tall sails, the fresh blue and green
of the dancing waves. Oh, I was romancing finely those nights! And there
came no Blessed Damozel to say to me gruffly, "Couches-toi. Il est
tard."

When the sketch was completed at last I gave it to my father to read and
then went out for a long walk. It was nearly midnight when I returned,
but he was still reading. He cleared his throat.

"Son," he said very huskily, "this is a strong piece of work!" His eyes
were moist as they moved rapidly down the page. He looked up with a
jerk. "Who'll print it?" he asked.

"I wish I knew, Dad----"

I mailed it that night to a magazine. In the next two weeks my father's
suspense was even deeper than my own, though he tried hard to joke about
it, calling me "Pendennis." One day in his office chair he wheeled with
a nervous sharpness, and I could feel his eyes fixed on the envelope
which the postman had just thrown on my desk. God help me, it was heavy
and long, it had my manuscript inside. Disma