Jay, in white shirt and duck, was up the mast of a forty-foot sloop, rigging the halyards. It was a Sunday morning, warm and sunny and sleepy upon that little inlet of sheltered water which sparkles beside the green parkway and boulevard shore of the Chicago "gold coast."
It lies well north of the great, geometrical jetties and moles making the bulwarks of the harbor at the mouth of the river whereon ply the ships of commerce: the long, laden coal carriers, the white and scrubbed passenger liners and the package freighters from Buffalo, Erie, Port Arthur. It is far, far north of the Calumet and the slips at Gary for the ore-boats from Duluth. These pass so far out that often they are hull-down on the horizon; for Belmont harbor is no haven for any craft frankly launched for gain; it is anchorage for privately owned yachts only.
Jay ran the ropes carefully, leisurely; enjoying ⟨it. The⟩ sun was not an hour above the water; a steady, pleasant landward breeze was blowing; he liked the feel of it, he liked the swing and sway of the mast, the wash of the water on the hull. When he slid down and hauled, with his mates, on the hoists he had just rigged and the sail billowed out and the jib ballooned before it, the world was very good to Jay Rountree and his five mates of the Arletta's crew.
They had cast off from the buoy and singing, because
