I explained that it was a fire-boat testing her hose-lines, and then as we moved into the channel I gained courage, and found myself pointing out the Statue of Liberty, Governors Island, and the Brooklyn Bridge.  The fact that it was a stranger who was talking did not seem to disturb her.  I cannot tell how she conveyed the idea, but I soon felt that she felt, no matter what unconventional thing she chose to do, people would not be rude, or misunderstand.

I considered telling her my name.  At first it seemed that that would be more polite.  Then I saw to do so would be forcing myself upon her, that she was interested in me only as a guide to New York Harbor.

When we passed the Brooklyn Navy Yard I talked so much and so eagerly of the battle-ships at anchor there that the lady must have thought I had followed the sea, for she asked:  “Are you a sailorman?”

It was the first question that was in any way personal.

“I used to sail a catboat,” I said.

My answer seemed to puzzle her, and she frowned.  Then she laughed delightedly, like one having made a discovery.

“You don’t say ‘sailorman,’” she said.  “What do you ask, over here, when you want to know if a man is in the navy?”

She spoke as though we were talking a different language.

“We ask if he is in the navy,” I answered.

She laughed again at that, quite as though I had said something clever.

“And you are not?”

“No,” I said, “I am in Joyce & Carboy’s office.  I am a stenographer.”

Again my answer seemed both to puzzle and to surprise her.  She regarded me doubtfully.  I could see that she thought, for some reason, I was misleading her.

“In an office?” she repeated.  Then, as though she had caught me, she said:  “How do you keep so fit?” She asked the question directly, as a man would have asked it, and as she spoke I was conscious that her eyes were measuring me and my shoulders, as though she were wondering to what weight I could strip.

“It’s only lately I’ve worked in an office,” I said.  “Before that I always worked out-of-doors; oystering and clamming and, in the fall, scalloping.  And in the summer I played ball on a hotel nine.”

I saw that to the beautiful lady my explanation carried no meaning whatsoever, but before I could explain, the young man with whom she had come on board walked toward us.

Neither did he appear to find in her talking to a stranger anything embarrassing.  He halted and smiled.  His smile was pleasant, but entirely vague.  In the few minutes I was with him, I learned that it was no sign that he was secretly pleased.  It was merely his expression.  It was as though a photographer had said:  “Smile, please,” and he had smiled.

When he joined us, out of deference to the young lady I raised my hat, but the youth did not seem to think that outward show of respect was necessary, and kept his hands in his pockets.  Neither did he cease smoking.  His first remark to the lovely lady somewhat startled me.