I had joined the Glenmore in England； in the two yearsthat had elapsed before my desertion at Montreal， whathad the Glenmore done and where had she been？ Andthereat I took those landlubbers around the world withme. Buffeted by pounding seas and stung with flying spray，they fought a typhoon with me off the coast of Japan.
They loaded and unloaded cargo with me in all the portsof the Seven Seas. I took them to India， and Rangoon，and China， and had them hammer ice with me around theHorn and at last come to moorings at Montreal.
And then they said to wait a moment， and one policemanwent forth into the night while I warmed myself at thestove， all the while racking my brains for the trap theywere going to spring on me.
I groaned to myself when I saw him come in the doorat the heels of the policeman. No gypsy prank had thrustthose tiny hoops of gold through the ears； no prairie windshad beaten that skin into wrinkled leather； nor had snowdriftand mountain-slope put in his walk that reminiscentroll. And in those eyes， when they looked at me， I saw theunmistakable sun-wash of the sea. Here was a theme， alas with half a dozen policemen to watch me read—I who hadnever sailed the China seas， nor been around the Horn，nor looked with my eyes upon India and Rangoon.
I was desperate. Disaster stalked before me incarnate inthe form of that gold-ear-ringed， weather-beaten son ofthe sea. Who was he？ What was he？ I must solve him erehe solved me. I must take a new orientation， or else thosewicked policemen would orientate me to a cell， a policecourt， and more cells. If he questioned me first， before Iknew how much he knew， I was lost.
But did I betray my desperate plight to those lynx-eyedguardians of the public welfare of Winnipeg？ Not I. I metthat aged sailorman glad-eyed and beaming， with all thesimulated relief at deliverance that a drowning man woulddisplay on finding a life-preserver in his last despairingclutch. Here was a man who understood and who wouldverify my true story to the faces of those sleuth-houndswho did not understand， or， at least， such was what Iendeavored to play-act. I seized upon him； I volleyed himwith questions about himself. Before my judges I wouldprove the character of my savior before he saved me.
He was a kindly sailorman—an “easy mark”. Thepolicemen grew impatient while I questioned him. Atlast one of them told me to shut up. I shut up； but whileI remained shut up， I was busy creating， busy sketchingthe scenario of the next act. I had learned enough togo on with. He was a Frenchman. He had sailed alwayson French merchant vessels， with the one exception of avoyage on a “lime-juicer”. And last of all—blessed fact！ —hehad not been on the sea for twenty years.
The policeman urged him on to examine me.
“You called in at Rangoon？” he queried.
I nodded. “We put our third mate ashore there. Fever.”
If he had asked me what kind of fever， I should haveanswered， “Enteric，” though for the life of me I didn’tknow what enteric was. But he didn’t ask me. Instead， hisnext question was： —
“And how is Rangoon？”
“All right. It rained a whole lot when we were there.”
“Did you get shore-leave？”
“Sure，” I answered. “Three of us apprentices went ashoretogether.”
“Do you remember the temple？”
“Which temple？” I parried.
“The big one， at the top of the stairway.”
If I remembered that temple， I knew I’d have to describeit. The gulf yawned for me.
I shook my head.
“You can see it from all over the harbor，” he informedme. “You don’t need shore-leave to see that temple.”
I never loathed a temple so in my life. But I fixed thatparticular temple at Rangoon.
“You can’t see it from the harbor，” I contradicted. “Youcan’t see it from the town. You can’t see it from the top ofthe stairway. Because—” I paused for the effect. “Becausethere isn’t any temple there.”
“But I saw it with my own eyes！” he cried.
“That was in—？” I queried.
“Seventy-one.”
“It was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1887，” Iexplained. “It was very old.”
There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing in hisold eyes the youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea.
“The stairway is still there，” I aided him. “You can seeit from all over the harbor. And you remember that littleisland on the right-hand side coming into the harbor？” Iguess there must have been one there （I was prepared toshift it over to the left-hand side）， for he nodded. “Gone，”
I said. “Seven fathoms of water there now.”
I had gained a moment for breath. While he ponderedon time’s changes， I prepared the finishing touches of mystory.
“You remember the custom-house at Bombay？”
He remembered it.
“Burned to the ground，” I announced.
“Do you remember Jim Wan？” he came back at me.
“Dead，” I said； but who the devil Jim Wan was I hadn’tthe slightest idea.
I was on thin ice again.
“Do you remember Billy Harper， at Shanghai？” I queriedback at him quickly.
That aged sailorman worked hard to recollect， but the BillyHarper of my imagination was beyond his faded memory.
“Of course you remember Billy Harper，” I insisted.
“Everybody knows him. He’s been there forty years. Well，he’s still there， that’s all.”
And then the miracle happened. The sailorman remembered Billy Harper. Perhaps there was a Billy Harper，and perhaps he had been in Shanghai for forty years andwas still there； but it was news to me.
For fully half an hour longer， the sailorman and I talkedon in similar fashion. In the end he told the policementhat I was what I represented myself to be， and after anight’s lodging and a breakfast I was released to wanderon westward to my married sister in San Francisco.
