ce I was standing at Joe Hogan's very elbow when he began
explaining to the book clerk that he was a friend of the Dutch sailor
who had been there a few days before.

So a few days later, behold me on the Staten Island ferry, on my way to
see Tommy and the _Alvina_.

I'm afraid I would always desert the office if there's a plausible
excuse to bum about the waterfront. Is there any passion in the breast
of mankind more absorbing than the love of ships? A tall Cunarder
putting out to sea gives me a keener thrill than anything the Polo
Grounds or the Metropolitan Opera can show. Of what avail a meeting of
the Authors' League when one can know the sights, sounds, and smells of
West or South Street? I used to lug volumes of Joseph Conrad down to the
West-Street piers to give them to captains and first mates of liners,
and get them to talk about the ways of the sea. That was how I met
Captain Claret of the _Minnehaha_, that prince of seamen; and Mr. Pape
of the _Orduna_, Mr. Jones of the _Lusitania_ and many another. They
knew all about Conrad, too. There were five volumes of Conrad in the
officers' cabins on the _Lusitania_ when she went down, God rest her. I
know, because I put them there.

* * * * *

And the Staten Island ferry is a voyage on the Seven Seas for the
landlubber, After months of office work, how one's heart leaps to greet
our old mother the sea! How drab, flat, and humdrum seem the ways of
earth in comparison to the hardy and austere life of ships! There on
every hand go the gallant shapes of vessels--the _James L. Morgan_, dour
little tug, shoving two barges; _Themistocles_, at anchor, with the blue
and white Greek colours painted on her rusty flank; the _Comanche_
outward bound for Galveston (I think); the _Ascalon_, full-rigged ship,
with blue-jerseyed sailormen out on her bowsprit snugging the canvas.
And who is so true a lover of the sea as one who can suffer the ultimate
indignities--and love her still! I am queasy as soon as I sight Sandy
Hook....

At the quarantine station I had a surprise. The _Alvina_ was not there.
One old roustabout told me he thought she had gone to sea. I was duly
taken aback. Had I made the two-hour trip for nothing? Then another came
to my aid. "There she is, up in the bight," he said. I followed his
gesture, and saw her--a long, slim white hull, a cream-coloured funnel
with a graceful rake; the Stars and Stripes fresh painted in two places