There is a matter which I may mention in connection with J. P.’s life on the yacht which, trivial as it seems when told at this distance of time, never failed to make a profound impression upon me.  Of all the trying moments which were inseparable from attendance upon a blind man with a will of iron and a nervous system of gossamer, no moment was quite so full of uneasiness as that in which J. P. used the gangway in boarding or in leaving the yacht.

Take the case of his going ashore.  The yacht lies at anchor in a gentle swell; the launch comes up to the gangway; two or three men with boat-hooks occupy themselves in trying to keep it steady.  First over the side goes Dunningham, backward, then Mr. Pulitzer facing forward, one hand on the gang-rail, the other on Dunningham’s shoulder; then an officer and one of the secretaries, close behind J. P. and ready to clutch him if he slipped.

Dunningham reaches the grating at the foot of the gangway, then J. P., then there is a pause while the latter is placed in the exact position where one step forward will carry him into the launch, where the officer in charge is ready to receive him.

In the meantime the launch is bobbing up and down, its gunwale at one instant level with the gangway-grating, at another, two or three feet below it.  At the precise moment when the launch is almost at the top of its rise Dunningham says:  “Now, step, please, Mr. Pulitzer.”  But J. P. waits just long enough to allow the launch to drop a couple of feet, and then suddenly makes up his mind and tries to step off onto nothing.  Dunningham, the officer and the secretary seize him as he cries:  “My God!  What’s the matter?  You told me to step.”

Then follows a long argument as to what Dunningham had meant precisely when he said “Step!” This whole process might be repeated several times before he actually found himself in the launch.

The whole thing inspired me with a morbid curiosity; and whenever J. P. was going up or down the gangway I always found myself, in common, I may add, with a considerable proportion of the ship’s company, leaning over the side watching this nerve-racking exhibition.

I have said that it was J. P.’s custom to seek repose on the yacht when he was worn out with overwork; but it would be more accurate to say that rest was the seldom realized object of these short cruises, for nothing was more difficult for J. P. than to drop his work so long as he had a vestige of strength left with which he could flog his mind into action.

Starting out with the best intentions, J. P.’s cruises of recuperation were usually cut short by putting in to Portland, or New London, or Marblehead to get newspapers and to send telegrams summoning to the yacht one or another of the higher staff of The World.

It was, however, when we anchored, as we often did, off Greenwich, Conn., that J. P. indulged himself to his utmost capacity in conferences with editors and business managers of The World and with one or two outsiders.  We would drop anchor in the afternoon, pick up a visitor, cruise in the Sound for a night and a morning, drop anchor again, send the visitor ashore, and pick up another.