"Not me. I got a family to look after."

"N' me. We'll put out."

"All right, sir." The mate descended to the wharf. "In with that
freight runway and plank!" he called out to the waiting longshoremen.
"And you"--a colored steward was at his elbow--"tell 'em all aboard on
the dock and all ashore on the boat that's goin' ashore."

The steward voiced the mate's instructions; the last passenger came
aboard and the last friend went ashore. The gangplank was hauled in, the
lines cast off and the Port Rock steamer slid out from her slip.

She was well down the harbor before Jan took a piece of paper from his
pocket. "Number two hundred and seventy-six," he read. "That's it--two
hundred and seventy-six." And seeking out the number he knocked on the
door. It opened slightly and Jan saw peeking out at him the lips, chin
and half an eye each side of the nose of a pretty and well-dressed girl.
Jan looked up at the number over the door again to see if he had made a
mistake. Then the door opened more widely--and it was she, smiling out
at him; but so rosy and terribly pretty that Jan felt afraid and drew
back.

"I thought maybe you would like to get out for some fresh air soon," he
stammered.

"I was just trying on the new hat I bought with the money you sent up
last night--and a shirtwaist and a lovely long coat. How did you get
through the night?"