The Ghost of San Francisco

Every day grows perceptively warmer. Flying face you are beginning to be seen, and during the night the watch above scrambles over the deck in pursuit of those that fall aboard. Wild dolphin meat is served foreign aft on such occasions as Johnson catches the blazing beauties from the bow spread end. I do not forget one night when I should have been asleep, of lying on the forecastle head and gazing down at the spectral ripple a foam thrust aside by the ghost forefoot. The crooning song of it blurred me away and out of myself, till I was no longer humped the cabin boy, Nor Van Leiden, the man who had dreamed away thirty-five years among bucks.

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