t the setting sun over the dark line which meant home. Then he
shook out several strings of vermin, and holding them at arm's length,
stopped at the cabin window. His cheap trousers failed to reach the tops
of his coarse shoes, and the gap showed the skin on meagre ankles. I was
interested to know what he would take.

"What d'ye want?" asked Trunnell.

"I come for a yaller silk ban'kercheef," said he, offering the strings.

"Don't yer think ye'd better get some o' them woollens? It'll be cold on
the beach."

"I got clothes a plenty. I want a yaller silk ban'kercheef. Yer got one,
for Sam tole me so. I'm a-goin' ashore to Hennery's, an' I ain't goin'
like no clown without a wipe. Kin I have it?"

The handkerchief was passed out, and the old fellow went forward smiling.

What a strange thing is the end of a deep-water voyage! Men who have been
living together for months through suffering and hardship will go over
the ship's side with a cheery farewell. They may meet for a few moments
at the office to draw their pay, and then take a drink all around. That
is all. They seldom see or hear of each other again. The world goes on,
and they drift about, taking what part in affairs Fate has in store for
them. One should come back aboard the ship the day after she makes her
dock and look into the deserted forecastle and about the lonely decks,
where so much has taken place, to realize man's lonely mission. The old
ship-keeper, sitting alone smoking on the hatchway in the evening before
unloading begins, will affront one with his presence. Where are the men,
rough, honest, coarse, or even bad, that used to sit there so often in
the twilight of the dog-watch? There is a strange yearning to see them
again. I watched the sun go down with a feeling of mingled joy and
sorrow,--joy for the return to the States, and sorrow for the parting
which must soon take place between my shipmates.

When we came to an anchor and made ready to go ashore, the little giant
Trunnell came up to say good-by to the ladies. I had decided to accompany
them to the city.

When he shook hands, the tears ran down out of his little eyes and
trickled over his bushy beard to the deck.

"I wishes ye all the best o' luck," said he, and he fumbled in his pocket
for a moment, letting a small piece of paper escape and flutter to the
deck. I stooped and picked it up, glancing at the writing on it. The
words were:--

Mrs. William Sackett, 25 Prince St., E.C., Lo