behind the warehouse across the tracks, while the hoarse cry of the station agent rang horribly in his ears. The long arm of the Standard had almost clutched him by the collar. As he hurried down the nearest street to the water, he saw heading toward him a lusty youth of a sailorish cut, who eyed the camera case as if hasty suspicions were confirmed.
"Is your name Wilson?" demanded the stranger. "If it be, come along with me. I'm from the Albatross' boat-crew."
Wondering how much guilt was written in his face, Wilson fervently shook the hand of the briny youth. They fared toward the pier, while the convoy explained:
"You're in luck. We're ready to go to sea as soon as you get aboard. Hit it just right, didn't you? The pilots 'll be glad to see you again. They was tickled to death over the piece you wrote for the paper when the Eben Tunnell, Number Three, come in after fightin' through the '88 blizzard, and specially what you wrote about ol' 'Pop' Markle stickin' by the Morgan Castle when she ketched fire off
