of Everett," which was the whaleback's name, was at the Mission
Street wharf. This made it possible for him to write the article
in two ways. He either could fake his copy from a clipping on the
subject which the exchange editor had laid on his desk, or he
could go down in person to the wharf, interview the captain, and
inspect the craft for himself. The former was the short and easy
method. The latter was more troublesome, but would result in a
far more interesting article.

Condy debated the subject a few minutes, then decided to go down
to the wharf. San Francisco's water-front was always interesting,
and he might get hold of a photograph of the whaleback. All at
once the "idea" of the article struck him, the certain underlying
notion that would give importance and weight to the mere details
and descriptions. Condy's enthusiasm flared up in an instant.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed; "by Jove!"

He clapped on his hat wrong side foremost, crammed a sheaf of
copy-paper into his pocket, and was on the street again in another
moment. Then it occurred to him that he had forgotten to call at
his club that morning for his mail, as was his custom, on the way
to the office. He looked at his watch. It was early yet, and his
club was but two blocks' distance. He decided that he would get
his letters at the club, and read them on the way down to the
wharf.

For Condy had joined a certain San Francisco club of artists,
journalists, musicians, and professional men that is one of the
institutions of the city, and, in fact, famous throughout the