ly to his feet. Martin was
a young man in a hurry.

He sprinted for, and boarded a passing street-car, just as the
boatswain reached the curb. He paid his fare, passed inside the car,
and sank thankfully into a seat. He was aglow with his adventure.
Something to remember, that affair with the weeping boatswain! But
what was the fellow so sudden about?

Thus did Martin consign the boatswain to the limbo of memory. He was
inside the street-car, so he did not see the automobile, driven by a
figure in a gray overcoat and cap, that drew up at the curb beside the
boatswain. Nor did he observe that automobile's consequent strange
behavior in persistently keeping half a block behind the slowly moving
street-car the whole distance to the waterfront.

CHAPTER III

THE HAPPY HUNCHBACK

The clock on the tower of the ferry building showed fifteen minutes
past nine when Martin dropped off the car at the foot of Market Street.
He paused a moment on the corner, enjoying the never-ending bustle
about the city's gateway. He had plenty of time--Green Street and the
Black Cruiser, was but a quarter hour's leisurely walk distant, and it
was then forty-five minutes till ten o'clock. He turned and walked
slowly northward along the Embarcadero.

The wide street was swept by a keen wind, and Martin found the night
even rawer than he had anticipated. But overcoated, he was protected,
and the walk was anything but lonely and uninteresting. To his lively
mind, this night stroll along the famous East Street was a fitting
complement to his strange encounter with the red boatswain of the brig
_Cohasset_, a fitting prelude to the secret business he was engaged
upon.

The very breath of the street was invigorating--the salt tang of the
breeze, the pungent, mingled smell of tar and cordage from the ship
chandleries, the taste of the Orient from the great warehouses, even
the gross smells of the grog-shops, and it set Martin's blood
a-coursing. It conjured visions of tall ships, wide seas, far ports.

Across the way, at the wharves, great steamers were disgorging. The
rattle of their winches filled the air. On his side of the street, the
sidewalk was thronged with stevedores, stokers, sailors, what not.
Each of the innumerable saloons he passed possessed its wassail group,
and rough ditties boomed out through swinging doors. Great loaded
trucks rumbled by. It was a world that worked and played both night
and day.

But as