ancient stone wharfs Jay ancient whalers with drooping davits and
squared yards, at anchor white-breasted yachts flashed in the sun,
a gray man-of-war's man flaunted the week's laundry, a four-masted
schooner dried her canvas, and over the smiling surface of the
harbor innumerable fishing boats darted. With delight I sniffed the
odors of salt water, sun-dried herring, of oakum and tar. The shore
opposite was a graceful promontory crowned with trees and decorous
gray-shingled cottages set in tiny gardens that reached to the very
edge of the harbor. The second officer was passing my window and I
asked what the promontory was called.

"Fairharbor," he said. He answered with such proprietary pride and
smiled upon Fairharbor with such approval that I ventured to guess
it was his home.

"That's right," he said; "I used to live at the New York end of the
run-in a flat. But never again! No place for the boy to play but in
the street. I found I could rent one of those old cottages over
there for the same money I paid for the flat. So I cut out New
York. My boy lives in a bathing suit now, and he can handle a
catboat same as me. We have a kitchen garden, and hens, and the
fishermen here will give you all the fish you can carry away--fish
right out of the water. I guess I've smashed the high cost of
living problem all right. I wouldn't go back to living in New York
now--not if they gave me the PILGRIM.

As though trying to prod my memory, I frowned. It was my conception
of the part of a detective. "Hasn't Fletcher Farrell," I asked, "a
house in Fairharbor?"