* * * * *

Francisco usually went down town for lunch.  There was a smart club called the Bohemian, where one met artists, actors, writers.  Among them were young Keith, the landscape painter, who gave promise of a vogue; Charley Stoddard, big and bearded; they called him an etcher with words; and there were Prentice Mulford, the mystic; David Belasco of the Columbia Theater.  Francisco got into his street clothes, kissed Jeanne and went out.  It was a bright, scintillant day.  He strode along whistling.

At the club he greeted gaily those who sat about the room.  Instead of answering, they ceased their talk and stared at him.  Presently Stoddard advanced, looking very uncomfortable.

“Let’s go over there and have a drink,” he indicated a secluded corner.  “I want a chat with you.”

“Oh, all right,” said Francisco.  He followed Stoddard, still softly whistling the tune which had, somehow, caught his fancy.  They sat down, Charley Stoddard looking preternaturally grave.

“Well, my boy,” Francisco spoke, “what’s troubling you?”

“Oh—­ah—­” said the other, “heard from your folks lately, Francisco?”

“Yes, they’re homeward bound.  Ought to be off Newfoundland by now.”

The drinks came.  Stanley raised his glass, drank, smiling.  Stoddard followed, but he did not smile.  “Can you bear a shock, old chap?” He blurted.  “I—­they—­dammit man—­the ship’s been wrecked.”

Francisco set his glass down quickly.  He was white.  “The—­The
Raratonga?”

Stoddard nodded.  There was silence.  Then, “Was any-body—­drowned?”

Stanley did not need an answer.  It was written large in Stoddard’s grief-wrung face.  He got up, made his way unsteadily to the door.  A page came running after with his hat and stick and he took them absently.  Nearby was a newspaper office, crowds about it, bulletins announcing the Raratonga’s total destruction with all on board.

Francisco began to walk rapidly, without a definite sense of direction.  He found relief in that.  The trade-wind was sharp in his face and he pulled his soft hat down over his eyes.  Presently he found himself in an unfamiliar locality—­the water-front—­amid a bustling rough-spoken current of humanity that eddied forward and back.  There were many sailors.  From the doors of innumerable saloons came the blare of orchestrions; now and then a drunken song.

Entering one of the swinging doors, Francisco called for whisky.  He felt suddenly a need for stimulant.  The men at the long counter looked at him curiously.  He was not of their kind.  A little sharp-eyed man who was playing solitaire at a table farther back, looked up interested.  He pulled excitedly at his chin, rose and signed to a white-coated servitor.  They had their heads together.

It was almost noon the following day when Chief Mate Chatters of the whaleship Greenland, en route for Behring Sea, went into the forecastle to appraise some members of a crew hastily and informally shipped.  “Shanghaiing,” it was called.  But one had to have men.  One paid the waterfront “crimps” a certain sum and asked no questions.