Maybe you remember,--Ira, who'd come on to see Mr. Robert about
buildin' a new racin' yacht, the tall, freckled gink with a love affair
on his mind? Why, sure, this was Ira's Harbor I was headed for. And,
say, I didn't feel half so strange about explorin' the State after
that. For Ira, you know, is a friend of mine. Havin' settled that
with myself, I throws out my chest and roams around the decks, climbin'
every flight of stairs I came to, until I gets to a comfy little coop
on the very top where a long guy wearin' white suspenders over a blue
flannel shirt is jugglin' the steerin' wheel.

"Hello, Cap!" says I. "How's she headin'?"

He ain't one of the sociable kind, though. You'd most thought, from
the reprovin' stare he gives me, that he didn't appreciate good comp'ny.

"Can't you read?" says he.

"Ah, you mean the Keep-Out sign? Sure, Pete," says I; "but I can't see
it from in here."

"Then git out where you can see it plainer," says he.

"Ah, quit your kiddin'!" says I. "That's for the common herd, ain't
it? Now, I---- Say, if it'll make you feel any better, I'll tell you
who I am."

"Say it quick then," says he. "Are you Woodrow Wilson, or only the
Secretary of the Navy?"

"You're warm," says I. "I'm a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay