"What sort of a structure is it?" I knew, but I
wanted some other employment for his mouth.

"First order, screw pile, about a hundred and
twenty feet high, stuck on a coral reef at the mouth
of the harbor. 'Bout like our Fowey Rocks, off the
Florida coast. She's backing in." His eyes were
still on the Tampico, the floes of North River ice
hemming her in on all sides. "Passengers'll be off
in an hour. Wonder how they like our climate--
little chilly for pajamas."

Here Mawkum strolled into his room and began
overhauling the contents of a rack of drawings piled
one on top of the other like cordwood, labelled:
"Screw Pile Structures."

The next morning there came a timid knock at
Mawkum's door--the knock of a child with matches
to sell, or of one of those dear sisters who collect
for the poor. At a second summons, a little louder
than the first, the chief, with an impatient air, slid
from the high stool facing his drawing board, and
threw wide the door.

I craned my head and discovered a small, ivory-
tinted individual in a Panama hat, duck trousers and
patent-leather shoes. Wrapped about his shrivelled
frame, one red-lined end tossed gallantly over his