I scarcely know
         where to begin,
           though I sometimes facetiously
              place the cause
                   of it all
                 to Charley Furuseth's credit.

    He kept a summer cottage
           in Mill Valley,
         under the shadow
               of Mount Tamalpais,
         and never occupied it
             except when
                 he loafed
                       through the winter mouths
                      and read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer
                          to rest his brain.

    When summer came on,
           he elected
              to sweat
                   out a hot
                       and dusty existence
                     in the city
                  and to toil incessantly.

    Had it not
        been my custom
              to run up
            to see him
                   every Saturday afternoon
                  and to stop over
         till Monday morning,
           this particular January Monday morning
            would not
                  have found me afloat
                       on San Francisco Bay.

    Not but
         that I
            was afloat
                   in a safe craft,
           for the Martinez
            was a new ferry-steamer,
         making her fourth
              or fifth trip
                   on the run
                 between Sausalito and San Francisco.

    The danger lay
           in the heavy fog
          which blanketed the bay,
           and of which,
         as a landsman,
           I had little apprehension.

    In fact,
           I remember the placid exaltation
             with which
                 I took
                       up my position
                           on the forward upper deck,
         directly beneath the pilot-house,
           and allowed the mystery
               of the fog
             to lay
               hold of my imagination.

    A fresh breeze was blowing,
           and for a time
             I was alone
                in the moist obscurity
                           - yet
                       not alone,
         for I
            was dimly conscious
                   of the presence
                 of the pilot,
           and of
             what I took
                  to be the captain,
         in the glass house
               above my head.

    I remember thinking
         how comfortable it was,
           this division of labour
              which made it unnecessary
                   for me
                  to study fogs,
         winds,
           tides,
         and navigation,
           in order
              to visit my friend
             who lived
                   across an arm
                       of the sea.

    It was good
         that men should be specialists,
           I mused.

    The peculiar knowledge
           of the pilot
         and captain
        sufficed for
               many thousands of people
         who knew
               no more of the sea
             and navigation
               than I knew.

    On the other hand,
           instead of
            having to devote my energy
                   to the learning
                       of a multitude of things,
         I concentrated it
               upon a few particular things,
           such as,
         for instance,
           the analysis of Poe's place
               in American literature -
                   an essay
                 of mine,
         by the way,
           in the current Atlantic.

    Coming aboard,
           as I passed
               through the cabin,
         I had
              noticed with greedy
                  eyes a stout gentleman
                      reading the Atlantic,
           which was open
               at my very essay.

    And there it was again,
           the division of labour,
         the special knowledge
               of the pilot
             and captain
              which permitted the stout gentleman
                  to read my special knowledge
                       on Poe
             while they carried
                   him safely
                       from Sausalito to San Francisco.

    A red-faced man,
           slamming the cabin door
               behind him and stumping
             out on the deck,
         interrupted my reflections,
           though I made
               a mental note
                   of the topic
                 for use
                   in a projected essay which
             I had thought of calling
         "The Necessity for Freedom:
             A Plea for the Artist."

    The red-faced man
          shot a glance
               up at the pilot-house,
           gazed around at the fog,
         stumped across the deck
               and back
         (he evidently had artificial legs),
            and stood
              still by my side,
               legs wide apart,
             and with an expression
                   of keen enjoyment
                 on his face.

    I was not wrong
         when I decided
             that his days
                had been
                      spent on the sea.

    "It's nasty weather
           like this here
         that turns heads grey
           before their time," he said,
           with a nod
               toward the pilot-house.

    "I had not thought