Briggs, the mate, confided to me in a soft aside that the chap was making the voyage because he knew he had an audience which couldn’t escape—­unless it jumped over the side.  Captain Shreve didn’t confide; his face kept its accustomed expression of serenity, and he made no attempt to stem the author’s flood of words.  I was somewhat surprised by this meekness, for our Old Man is a great hand to puncture a windbag; but then, I reflected, the writing guy, being a passenger, was in the nature of a guest on board, and, according to Captain Shreve’s code, a man to be humored.

We lay in the Stream, with a half dozen hours to pass ere we proceeded to sea.  It was Sunday, so we were idle, the four of us lounging on the lower bridge deck—­the Captain, Briggs, myself, and this human phonograph.  It was a pleasant day, and we would have enjoyed the loaf in the warm afternoon sunshine, had it not been for the unending drivel of the passenger.  I enjoyed it anyway, for even though the ears be filled with a buzzing, the eyes are free, and San Francisco Bay is an interesting place.

“. . . and the critics all agree,” the passenger rambled on, “that my genius is proved by my amazingly accurate portraits of character.  I have the gift.  That is why I shall do ‘King’ Waldon so well.  I need but a mental image of the man to make him live again.  You must tell me what he looked like, Captain.  Is it true, as I have been told, he was such a giant of a man, and possessed of such enormous physical strength?  And that his hair retained its yellow luster even in old age?  And that he had a great scar on his face, or head, about which he never spoke?  Ah, yes, you must tell me about him, Captain.”

Captain Shreve grunted at this—­the first sound he had been able to squeeze into the talk for half an hour.  But the author did not pause; in fact he hastened on, as though determined to forestall any interruption.  Talk!  I don’t know when that fellow found any time to write.  He was too eager to tell the world about his gift.

“You know,” says he, “I need but a few little intimate facts about ‘King’ Waldon’s appearance and character, and I can make him stalk through my story as truly alive as when he was in the flesh.  If he were alive I should not need your assistance, Captain; one look at the man and I could paint him in his true colors.  I have that gift.  Not men alone—­I am able to invest even inanimate objects with personality.  A house, a street, or a—­yes, even a ship.  Even this ship.  Now, this old box——­”

Captain Shreve sat up straight in his chair.  I thought he was rasped by the fellow’s slur, for he is very proud of his ship.  But it was something else that rubbed the expression of patient resignation from his face; he was staring over the starboard rail with an expression of lively interest.  I followed his gaze with mine, but saw only a ferryboat in the distance, and, close by, a big red-stack tug towing a dilapidated coal hulk.