Francisco began to walk rapidly, without a definite sense of direction. He found relief in that. The trade-wind was sharp in his face and he pulled his soft hat down over his eyes. Presently he found himself in an unfamiliar locality--the water-front--amid a bustling rough-spoken current of humanity that eddied forward and back. There were many sailors. From the doors of innumerable saloons came the blare of orchestrions; now and then a drunken song. Entering one of the swinging doors, Francisco called for whisky. He felt suddenly a need for stimulant. The men at the long counter looked at him curiously. He was not of their kind. A little sharp-eyed man who was playing solitaire at a table farther back, looked up interested. He pulled excitedly at his chin, rose and signed to a white-coated servitor. They had their heads together. It was almost noon the following day when Chief Mate Chatters of the whaleship Greenland, en route for Behring Sea, went into the forecastle to appraise some members of a crew hastily and informally shipped. "Shanghaiing," it was called. But one had to have men. One paid the waterfront "crimps" a certain sum and asked no questions. "Who the devil's this?" He indicated a man sprawled in one of the bunks, who, despite a stubble of beard and ill-fitting sea clothes, was unmistakably a gentleman. "Don't know--rum sort for a sailor. Got knocked on the head in a scrimmage. Cawnt remember nothing but his name, Francisco." CHAPTER LXXIII THE RETURN In the fall of 1898 a man of middle years walked slowly down the stairs which plunged a traveler from the new Ferry building's upper floor into the maelstrom of Market street's beginning. Cable cars were whirling on turn-tables, newsboys shouted afternoon editions; hack drivers, flower vendors, train announcers added their babel of strident-toned outcries to the clanging of gongs, the clatter of wheels and hoofs upon cobblestone streets. Ferry sirens screamed; an engine of the Belt Line Railroad chugged fiercely as it pulled a train of freight cars toward the southern docks. The stranger paused, apparently bewildered by this turmoil. He was a stalwart, rather handsome man, bearded and bronzed as if through long exposure. And in his walk there was a suggestion of that rolling gait which smacks of maritime pursuits. He proceeded aimlessly up Market street, gazing round him, still with that odd, half-doubting and half-troubled manner. In front of the Palace Hotel he paused, seemed about to enter, but went on. He halted once again at Third street, surveying a tall brick building with a clock tower. "What place is that?" he queried of a bystander. "That? Why, the Chronicle building." The stranger was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a curious, detached tone, "I thought it was at Bush and Kearney." "Oh, not for eight years," said the other. "Did you live here, formerly?"