Martin continued northward, the street's character changed. The
kens and cheap eating-places gave way for the most part to the
warehouses--great brick and concrete fortresses that turned a blank
dark face to the night.

Pedestrians became few, mainly straggling seamen bound for their ships.
Across the way, the steamers at the wharves were smaller, and here and
there loomed the spars of a sailing vessel, a delicate tracery upon the
blue-black starlit sky.

Martin speculated upon these last. The intricate, woofed masses of
wood and cordage captured his fancy. He wondered if by any chance the
boatswain's ship was over there. He wondered what the brig _Cohasset_
was like. He wondered what the "blessed little mate" was like. He
visioned that surprising person who had such influence over rough
boatswains--a prim little man with mutton chop whiskers, he decided.
Yes, the 'blessed little mate' of the brig _Cohasset_ would be a
little, white-crowned, bewhiskered old gentleman, perhaps somewhat
senile and decrepit. It was inherent respect for old age that inspired
the boatswain's affection.

So musing, Martin came to a by-street that divided two warehouses. He
crossed the alleys, but lingered on the far curb.

The alley was dark, but he noticed some distance down it the outline of
an automobile standing with its lights hooded. He had a passing wonder
at the presence of an apparently deserted machine in such a location,
but it was a subconscious interest.

The next street, he knew, was Green Street. Those lights that shone on
the next corner must mark his destination, the Black Cruiser saloon.
He pulled out his watch; still five and twenty moments before ten
o'clock.

As he stood there under a dim street light consulting his timepiece,
there came to his ears out of the darkness just ahead, a voice, a rich
and throaty tenor, singing softly. The sweet sounds pierced his
preoccupation. He looked, and some thirty or forty paces distant
perceived a gnome-like figure perched atop a fire hydrant, at the edge
of the sidewalk.

The figure was little better than a grotesque shadow in the gloom, but
there was no need of light to give definite shape. That pure, musical
voice once heard was not easily forgotten. Martin knew the missing
steward of the brig _Cohasset_ was there before him.

The voice rose and fell in a careless carol, an ancient, lilting, deep
sea chantey.

A roving, a roving,
Since roving's been