“I don’t know.  Do you?”

“M-m—­sometimes I think there’s something in it.  Did you notice the look in her eyes to-night?  But—­” the red lamp of the Port Light saloon loomed brightly ahead—­“it’s a pretty cold night—­a toothful o’ something, what d’y’ say?”

“Nope.”

“Then where you bound?”

“I don’t know—­take a walk, I guess.”

“Well, you sure picked a fine night for a walk.  Better lash your ears to your head, if you’re heading for the beach-side.  Be back this way soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?  What’s got into you to-night, Bud?” Baldwin stared at his chum.  He stepped nearer and laid a hand on Harty’s arm.  “You ain’t sick, Bud?”

“God, no!  I’m all right.  I’ll take a walk and come back.”

“All right, but hurry back, won’t you?”

IV

The Port Light saloon was doing a fine business.  The swinging doors between the backroom and the bar were swinging all the time—­and at the various tables a score of young men and a dozen or so of young women, and one stout fellow at the piano, were roaring dull care away.

The piano occupied one corner of an alcove off the large backroom.  In the other corner of the alcove Baldwin and a few friends were sitting into a quiet little game.  Things had been breaking well for the sailor, and it promised to be a blissful night, for when luck came his way in a poker game, Baldwin could fall into a trance, if nobody disturbed him.

It was Hatty who came bursting through the swinging doors to disturb him.  One peek at his chum’s face and “O Lord!” murmured Baldwin, “still on it.”  Aloud he added, “Sit in, Bud,” and Harty sat in, after first ordering a round of drinks.

Baldwin lifted his drink.  “Fell off that water-wagon kind o’ sudden, didn’t you, Bud,” but without even a curious glance emptied his glass.

Four or five hands were played, and, luck still running the sailor’s way, he was smiling like a moonlit sea, when, “Say, Baldy,” shook him out of his revery.

“Lord, Bud!  What?”

“A hell of a fine bunch we are.”

“Fine how?”

“To be spending our Christmas here.”

“Why, where else would we be?”

“Where but home?”

Baldwin smiled broadly.  “Say, Bud, I don’t see you logging any record-breaking runs for home.

“Blast it!—­I’ve got no home.”

“Well, who has?”

“But—­” Harty took the spare pack which he had been riffling and slammed it down on the table—­“there’s men who’ve got homes—­good homes—­who’re going to their death to sea to-night.”

“What’s the matter, Bud?  Sit down.  Sure there are.  They’re there every night, goin’ to their death somewhere out to sea, but how c’n we help it?”

“We can help it.”  Harty stood up “Fine men we are, all of us.”