School seemed a dull affair during the next two months when such radiant possibilities lay in store. Dave went on with his studies, but his heart was not in them. Every day, after dark, he spent hours at the window from which he could see the lights of passing vessels, and in the afternoons he haunted the wharves, where screaming winches were hauling bales and cases from the mysterious depths of different vessels. The smell of tarred ropes became a thing of joy to him, and when, on occasions, the mate or “bo’sun” of some ship invited him on board to look around after they had had a long chat, Dave thrilled with a new delight. The snug cabins and berths, not always as clean or tidy as they might have been, were a source of infinite wonder. Though he did not realize it, Dave was fanning the flame within him. At home he came out with nautical terms which he had picked up, to the great distress of Aunt Martha, for, to her, it was clearly the beginning of the end. Secretly she had always treasured the hope that her brother would put his foot down firmly and prevent Dave from risking his life on the sea, and occasionally, even now, she would have a passage of arms with Captain Hallard on the subject. “Let the boy have a taste of it,” he always declared. “You wouldn’t bring ducks up without water, and the Hallards are worse than any ducks I ever knew, only they want salt water. He’ll go whether I let him or not, so I might just as well let him, when he’s old enough.” Aunt Martha bent over her knitting on these occasions, making the needles fly and missing stitches, because you can’t see to knit, even with spectacles, when your eyes are full of tears. “Don’t worry, Martha dear,” Andrew Hallard said once, when this happened. “He won’t come to any harm, and if I had my time over again, I’d be a sailor just the same, so we can’t blame him. Now, stop crying. It’s a healthy life at sea, after all; and to listen to you, one would think every mariner who left the wharf went straight to Davy Jones’s locker as soon as he got into deep water.” Soon after the summer vacation began, Dave stood on one of the wharves within a mile of his home and watched a trim-looking steamer sidle to her berth. She was low in the water with a heavy cargo. Some time after the gangway was let down and traffic on it had started, an undersized youth, whose pockets bulged strangely, strolled casually ashore. He was about Dave’s age, had red hair, and an extremely dirty face. Something about the boy attracted Dave’s attention. He noticed that the red-headed youth looked quickly to the right and left, and then, dodging behind a truck, began to walk hurriedly away from the ship. Dave stepped across the wharf so that the owner of the red hair would have to pass close to him. The boy was glancing over his shoulder and nearly bumped into Dave. “Hello, kid, which is the way to New York?” he asked jerkily. “It’s miles from here. This is Brooklyn,” Dave said.