One summer, not long since, I went to spend a part of my holiday at Narragansett Pier in Rhode Island. My room overlooked the ocean, and at night I used often to sit after the hotel went to sleep and watch the great red August moon rise out of the horizon. Now and then the fog would partly mask her, revealing the general outlines of her figure like a loosely fitting night-robe. Beneath this weird atmosphere of shifting mist over the silver column of light reflected upon the swaying surface of the waters, a dim steamer appeared in the vaguest shape. Her lights were all that could be distinguished, shining out like the eyes of wild animals upon the shore of a hidden continent. “She is a phantom ship;” I said to myself. Soon I saw that I was mistaken, for the vessel headed toward the beach and anchored immediately before my window. The moon sank, the wind rose, the waves beat against the rocks, and I fell asleep. I thought no more of this familiar occurrence when I awoke the next day. I went down and had my swim, and when I came back, there stood my phantom ship. But oh, what a difference! She was in full dress, flags of all colors and designs hanging from her rigging. A noisy launch waited near her, and I saw by the raising of her blue flag that the owner was about to go ashore. “What is the name of that yacht?” I asked of my hotel proprietor. “She is the Festoon,” he answered, “she belongs to Commodore Crowther.” “Crowther! What Crowther?” “The Newport Crowther,” said he, “there is only one Crowther so far as I ever heard of. Surely you have heard of Crowther, the pickle man?” No, I was sorry, but I had not heard of him. I had been in the far West a number of years and was quite ignorant. “Well, well, that’s funny,” said he, “I thought everyone ate pickles. Look, that’s his cottage over there on the point.” “You mean that building that looks like a court house?” “Well, yes, it cost more than most court-houses;” said he, “and if you wait here long enough you may see the commodore, for that’s his oldest son there on that polo pony. He’s J. Chester Crowther, and he must be waiting for his father.” And then my proprietor suddenly deserted me. I saw the reason for his quick departure. A huge automobile, puffing the announcement of important arrivals, had drawn up at the door. Reporters and photographers hovered about it.