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home. The stranger put his rough hand on the operator's, and thanked him
for his "troubil," and went away.

Still the ship came not. Stately clippers swept into the Gate, and
merchantmen went by with colors flying, and the welcoming gun of the
steamer often reverberated among the hills. Then the patient face, with
the old resigned expression, but a brighter, wistful look in the eye,
was regularly met on the crowded decks of the steamer as she disembarked
her living freight. He may have had a dimly defined hope that the
missing ones might yet come this way, as only another road over that
strange unknown expanse. But he talked with ship captains and sailors,
and even this last hope seemed to fail. When the careworn face and
bright eyes were presented again at the observatory, the operator,
busily engaged, could not spare time to answer foolish interrogatories,
so he went away. But as night fell, he was seen sitting on the rocks
with his face turned seaward, and was seated there all that night.

When he became hopelessly insane, for that was what the physicians
said made his eyes so bright and wistful, he was cared for by a
fellow-craftsman who had known his troubles. He was allowed to indulge
his fancy of going out to watch for the ship, in which she "and the
children" were, at night when no one else was watching. He had made up
his mind that the ship would come in at night. This, and the idea that
he would relieve the operator, who would be tired with watching all day,
seemed to please him. So he went out and relieved the operator every
night!

For two years the ships came and went. He was there to see the
outward-bound clipper, and greet her on her return. He was known only
by a few who frequented the place. When he was missed at last from his
accustomed spot, a day or two elapsed before any alarm was felt. One
Sunday, a party of pleasure-seekers clambering over the rocks were
attracted by the barking of a dog that had run on before them. When they
came up they found a plainly dressed man lying there dead. There were a
few papers in his pocket,--chiefly slips cut from different journals of
old marine memoranda,--and his face was turned towards the distant sea.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Urban Sketches, by Bret Harte

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