"To think," she cried, "where all these ships have come from! Look
at their names; aren't they perfect? Just the names, see: the
'Mary Baker,' Hull; and the 'Anandale,' Liverpool; and the 'Two
Sisters,' Calcutta, and see that one they're calking, the
'Montevideo,' Callao; and there, look! look! the very one you're
looking for, the 'City of Everett,' San Francisco."

The whaleback, an immense tube of steel plates, lay at her wharf,
sucking in entire harvests of wheat from the San Joaquin valley--
harvests that were to feed strangely clad skeletons on the
southern slopes of the Himalaya foot-hills. Travis and Condy
edged their way among piles of wheat-bags, dodging drays and
rumbling trucks, and finally brought up at the after gangplank,
where a sailor halted them. Condy exhibited his reporter's badge.

"I represent 'The Times,'" he said, with profound solemnity, "and
I want to see the officer in charge."

The sailor fell back upon the instant.

"Power of the press," whispered Condy to Travis as the two gained
the deck.

A second sailor directed them to the mate, whom they found in the
chart-room, engaged, singularly enough, in trimming the leaves of
a scraggly geranium.

Condy explained his mission with flattering allusions to the
whaleback and the novelty of the construction. The mate--an old