The history of our westward-faring race is written in it. There is
pride in it, and dominion, and adventure, and conquest. When I
murmur it I see visions of lean, beaked ships, of winged helmets, and
heels iron-shod of restless men, royal lovers, royal adventurers,
royal fighters. Yes, and even now, in these latter days when the sun
consumes us, still we sit in the high seat of government and command.

Oh--and by the way--she is twenty-four years old. I asked Mr. Pike
the date of the Dixie's collision with the river steamer in San
Francisco Bay. This occurred in 1901. Margaret was twelve years old
at the time. This is 1913. Blessings on the head of the man who
invented arithmetic! She is twenty-four. Her name is Margaret, and
she is desirable.


There are so many things to tell about. Where and how this mad
voyage, with a mad crew, will end is beyond all surmise. But the
Elsinore drives on, and day by day her history is bloodily written.
And while murder is done, and while the whole floating drama moves
toward the bleak southern ocean and the icy blasts of Cape Horn, I
sit in the high place with the masters, unafraid, I am proud to say,
in an ecstasy, I am proud to say, and I murmur over and over to
MYSELF--MARGARET, A WOMAN; MARGARET, AND DESIRABLE.

But to resume. It is the first day of June. Ten days have passed
since the pampero. When the strong back on Number Three hatch was
repaired Captain West came back on the wind, hove to, and rode out
the gale. Since then, in calm, and fog, and damp, and storm, we have
won south until to-day we are almost abreast of the Falklands. The
coast of the Argentine lies to the West, below the sea-line, and some