a moment, while Captain Shreve got his yarn fairly launched.




CHAPTER II

Then, if I must have a beginning for the yarn (said Captain Shreve),
I'll begin with that morning, in this very port of San Francisco, when
I walked out of the Shipping Commissioner's office with my first A.B.'s
discharge in my hand, and a twelve months' pay-day jingling in my
pocket. For I must explain something of my state of mind on that
morning, so you will understand how I got Into Yankee Swope's
blood-ship.

It was the heyday of the crimps, and I walked through the very heart of
crimpdom, along the old East street. It is not a very prepossessing
thoroughfare even to-day, when it masquerades as the Embarcadero, a
sinner reformed. In those days, when it was just East street, it
consisted of solid blocks of ramshackle frame buildings, that housed
all the varieties of sharks and harpies who live off Jack ashore; it
was an ugly, dirty, fascinating way, a street with a garish, besotted
face. But on this morning it seemed the most wonderful avenue in the
world to me. I saw East street through the colorful eyes of youth--the
eyes of Romance.

I stepped along with my chest out and my chin up-tilted. A few paces
behind me a beachcomber wobbled along with my sea-bag on his
shoulder--for what A.B. would demean himself with such labor on
pay-day, when moochers abounded at his heel! I was looking for a