filled with a buzzing, the eyes are free, and San Francisco Bay is an
interesting place.

". . . and the critics all agree," the passenger rambled on, "that my
genius is proved by my amazingly accurate portraits of character. I
have the gift. That is why I shall do 'King' Waldon so well. I need
but a mental image of the man to make him live again. You must tell me
what he looked like, Captain. Is it true, as I have been told, he was
such a giant of a man, and possessed of such enormous physical
strength? And that his hair retained its yellow luster even in old
age? And that he had a great scar on his face, or head, about which he
never spoke? Ah, yes, you must tell me about him, Captain."

Captain Shreve grunted at this--the first sound he had been able to
squeeze into the talk for half an hour. But the author did not pause;
in fact he hastened on, as though determined to forestall any
interruption. Talk! I don't know when that fellow found any time to
write. He was too eager to tell the world about his gift.

"You know," says he, "I need but a few little intimate facts about
'King' Waldon's appearance and character, and I can make him stalk
through my story as truly alive as when he was in the flesh. If he
were alive I should not need your assistance, Captain; one look at the
man and I could paint him in his true colors. I have that gift. Not
men alone--I am able to invest even inanimate objects with personality.
A house, a street, or a--yes, even a ship. Even this ship. Now, this
old box----"

Captain Shreve sat up straight in his chair. I thought he was rasped
by the fellow's slur, for he is very proud of his ship. But it was