One morning as they were running up the Sound, homeward-bound, they passed a large steam yacht at anchor.  Frank happened to be on deck at the time, and he joined with the rest in the little chorus of admiration that went up at the sight of her.

“That’s the Minnehaha,” said the second mate.  “She belongs to the beautiful heiress, Miss Fenacre!”

“Ready for a Mediterranean cruise,” said the purser, who had been reading one of the newspapers the pilot had brought aboard.

Frank heard these two remarks in silence.  The sun, to him, seemed to stop shining.  The morning that had been so bright and pleasant all at once overcame him with disgust.  The might-have-been took him by the throat.  He descended into the engine-room to hide his dejected face in the heated oily atmosphere below; and seating himself on a tool-chest he watched, with hardly seeing eyes, the ponderous movement of his machinery.

It was the anodyne for his troubles, to feel the vibration of the engines and hear the rumble and hiss of the jacketed cylinders.  It always comforted him; he found companionship in the mighty thing he controlled; he looked at the trembling needle in the gauge, and instinctively noted the pressure as he thought of the trim smart vessel at anchor and of his dear one on the eve of parting.  He wondered whether they would ever pass again, he and she, in all the years to come.

The thought of the yacht haunted him all that day.  He took a sudden revulsion against the grinding routine of his own life.  It came over him like a new discovery, that he was tired of South America, tired of his ship, tired of everything.  He contrasted his own voyages in and out, from the same place to the same place, up and down, up and down, as regular as the swing of a pendulum with that gay wanderer of the raking masts who was free to roam the world.  It came over him with an insistence that he, too, would like to roam the world, and see strange places and old marble palaces with steps descending into the blue sea water, and islands with precipices and beaches and palm trees.

Almost awed at his own presumption he sat down and wrote to Miss Fenacre.

It was a short note, formally addressed, begging her for a position in the engine-room staff.  He knew, he said, that the quota was probably made up, and that he could not hope for an important place.  But if she would take him as a first-class artificer he would be more than grateful, and ventured on the little pleasantry that even if he had to be squeezed in as a supernumerary he was confident he could save her his pay and keep a good many times over.

He got an answer a couple of days later, addressed from a fashionable New York hotel and granting him an interview.  She called him “dear Frank,” and signed herself “ever yours,” and said that of course she would give him anything he wanted, only that she would prefer to talk it over first.