“Naw, he ain’t. And Mr. Kuhn’s busy. Won’t one of the clerks do? What do you want to see the firm about?”
“Well, Son, I had reasons of my own. However, I guess I won’t disturb Mr. Kuhn, if he’s busy’s you say. Here! you tell him, or Mr. Sylvester when he comes, that Cap’n Warren, Cap’n Elisha Warren of South Denboro—better write it down—called and will be back about half past twelve or thereabouts. Got it, have you? Hum! is that Elisha? You don’t tell me! I’ve been spellin’ it for sixty years, more or less, and never realized it had such possibilities. Lend me your pencil. There! you give Mr. Sylvester that and tell him I’ll see him later. So long, Son.”
He departed, smiling. The indignant office boy threw the card on the table.
Captain Elisha strolled down Pine Street, looking about him with interest. It had been years since he visited this locality, and the changes were many. Soon, however, he began to recognize familiar landmarks. He was approaching the water front, and there were fewer new buildings. When he reached South Street he was thoroughly at home.
The docks were crowded. The river was alive with small craft of all kinds. Steamers and schooners were plenty, but the captain missed the old square-riggers, the clipper ships and barks, such as he had sailed in as cabin boy, as foremast hand, and, later, commanded on many seas.
At length, however, he saw four masts towering above the roof of a freight house. They were not schooner rigged, those masts. The yards were set square across, and along them were furled royals and upper topsails. Here, at last, was a craft worth looking at. Captain Elisha crossed the street, hurried past the covered freight house, and saw a magnificent great ship lying beside a broad open wharf. Down the wharf he walked, joyfully, as one who greets an old friend.
The wharf was practically deserted. An ancient watchman was dozing in a sort of sentry box, but he did not wake. There was a pile of foreign-looking crates and boxes at the further end of the pier, evidently the last bit of cargo waiting to be carted away. The captain inspected the pile, recognized the goods as Chinese and Japanese, then read the name on the big ship’s stern. She was the Empress of the Ocean, and her home port was Liverpool.
Captain Elisha, as a free-born Yankee skipper, had an inherited and cherished contempt for British “lime-juicers,” but he could not help admiring this one. To begin with, her size and tonnage were enormous. Also, she was four-masted, instead of the usual three, and her hull and lower spars were of steel instead of wood. A steel sailing vessel was something of a novelty to the captain, and he was seized with a desire to go aboard and inspect.
The ladder from ship to wharf was down, of course, and getting on board was an easy matter. When he reached the deck and looked about him, the great size of the ship was still more apparent. The bulwarks were as high as a short man’s head. She was decked over aft, and, as the captain said afterwards, “her cabins had nigh as many stories as a house.” From the roof of the “first story,” level with the bulwarks, extended a series of bridges, which could be hoisted or lowered, and by means of which her officers could walk from stern to bow without descending to the deck. There was a good-sized engine house forward, beyond the galley and forecastle. Evidently the work of hoisting anchors and canvas was done by steam.
The captain strolled about, looking her over. The number of improvements since his seagoing days was astonishing. He was standing by the wheel, near the companion way, wishing that he might inspect the officers’ quarters, but not liking to do so without an invitation, when two men emerged from the cabin.