The Clio messenger. (Clio, Mich.) 1907-current, 1915-12-03
CHAPTER I.

Seth's credit. He kept a summer cot
tage in Mill Valley, under the shadow
of Mount Tamalpais, and never occu-
pied II except when he loafed through
the winter months and read Nietzsche
and Schopenhauer to rest his brain.
Had it not been my custom to run up
to see him every Saturday afternoon
and to stop over till Monday morning,
this particular January Monday morn
ing would not have found me afoat
on San Francisco bay.
Not but that | was afloat in a safe
craft, for the Martinez was a new ferry
steamer, making her fourth or fifth
trip on the run between Sausalito and
San Francisco. The danger lay in the
heavy fog which blanketed the bay,
and of which, as a landsman, ! had
little apprehension. | took up my posi-.
ton on the forward upper deck, direct.
ly beneath the pilot house, and al
lowed the mystery of the fog to lay
hold of my imagination. fresh breeze
was blowing. and for a time ! was
alone in the moist obscurity-yet not
alone. for | was dimly conscious OF
the presence of the pilot, and of what
l took to be the captain. in the glass
house above my head.
1t was good that men should be spe.
cialists, unused The peculiar knowl.
edge of the pilot and captain sufficed
for many thousands OF people who
knew no more of the sea and naviga-
tion than | knew. On the other hand,
instead of having to devote my en-.
ergy to the learning of a multitude Of
things, concentrated it upon a few
particular things, such as, for instance.
the analysis of Poe's place in Ameri
can literature-an essay of mine, by
the way. in the current Atlantic.
From out the fog came the mourn
full tolling of a bell, and could sea
the pilot turning the wheel with great
rapidity. The bell which had seemed
straight ahead was now sounding
from the side. Our own whistle was
blowing hoarsely. and from time to
time the sound of other whistles came
to us from out of the fog. An unseen
ferryboat was blowing blast after
blast, and a mouth-blown horn was
footing in terror-stricken fashion.
, A shrill whistle, piping as if gone
mad, came from directly ahead and
from very near at hand. Gongs sound
ed on the Martinez. Our paddlewheels
stopped, their pulsing beat died away
and then they started again. The
shrill whistle. like the chirping of a
cricket amid the cries of great beasts.
shot through the fog from more to
the side and swiftly grew faint and
fainter
1 glanced up. The captain had
thrust his head and shoulders out of
the pijot house, and was staring in
terf1y into the fog as though by sheer
force of will he could penetrate it. His
face was anxious.
Then everything happened, and with
uncomfortable rapidity. The fog
seemed to break away as though split
by a wedge, and the bow of steam.
boat emerged, trailing fog-wreaths on
either side like seaweed on the snout
of Leviathan. | could see the pilot
house and white-bearded man lean
ing partly out OF it, on his elbows. He
was clad in blue uniform, and re-
member noting how trim and quiet he
was. His quietness, under the circum
stances, was terrible. He accepted
destiny, marched hand in hand with ii,
and coolly measured the stroke. AS
he leaned there, he ran a calm and
speculative eye over us, as though to
determine the precise point of the col
Iision, and took no notice whatever
when our pilot. white with rage, shout
ed, Now you've done it,"
We must have been struck squarely
amidships, for ] saw nothing. the
strange steamboat having passed be-
You'd my line of vision. The Martinez
heeled over, sharply, and there was a
crashing and rending of timber. | was
thrown fiat on the wet deck, and be-
fore could scramble to ny feet
heard the screams Of women. This
&c was, | am certain-the most indie
scribable of blood-curdling sounds
that threw me into panic. ! remem.
bered the life preservers stored In the
swept back by a wild rush of men and
women. What happened in the next
few minutes do not recollect, though
have a clear remembrance of pull.
ing down life preservers from the over.
head racks, while a red-faced man
fastened them about the bodies OF a
historical group of women.
II was the screaming OF the women
that most tried my nerves. 1t must
have tried, too, the nerves of the red
faced man, for have picture which
will never fade from my mind. A stout
gentleman is stuffing a magazine into
his overcoat pocket and looking on Gu
riously. A tangled mass of women,
with drawn. white faces and open
mouths, is shrieking like a chorus OF
lost souls; and the redfaced man. bis
face now purplish with wrath. and
with his arms extended overhead as
I'm the act OF hurting thunderbolts. is
chanting "Shut I'D! Oh, shut up!'