an' work, always poor, dirty work, an' got no
name, only 'Dago.' I t'ink all de time 'bout my leetle beautiful
town; but sometimes I t'ink, too, when I am tired an' people is hard
to me: 'It is a dream. De world has no place so good as dat.' What
you t'ink, Dan?"

"Oh, I dunno," grunted Dan awkwardly. "Anyhow, there ain't no harm in
it. It don't follow a man's mad because he's got fancies."

"Fancies!" repeated the Dago. "Fancies!" He seemed to laugh a little
to himself, laughter with no mirth in it.

Night was sinking on the great solitude of waters. Above them the
sails of the foremast stood pale and lofty, and there was the
rhythmic jar of a block against a backstay. The Anna Maria lifted her
weather bow easily to the even sea, and the two men on the fo'c'sle
head swung on their feet unconsciously to the movement of the barque.

"Eef it was only a fancy," said the Dago suddenly, "eef it was only a
town in my mind, I don' want it no more." He made a motion with his
hand as though he cast something from him. "I t'ink all dis time it
is true, dat some day I find it again. It help me; it keep me glad;
it save me from misery. But now it is all finish."

"But don't you know," cried Dan, "don't you know for sure whether
it's true or not?"

The Dago shook his head. "I am no more sure," he said. "For t'ree
years I have had bad times, hard times. So now I am not sure. Dat is
why I t'ink I am a little mad, like Bill said."

"Never mind Bill," said Dan. "I'll settle with Bill."

He put his heavy hand on the other's arm.

"Lad," he said, "I'm sorry for your trouble. I ain't settin' up to
know much about fellers' minds, but it seems to me as if you was
better off without them fancies, if they ain't true. An' that town o'
yours! It sounded fine, as good a place as ever I heard of; but it
was mighty like them ports worn-out sailormen is always figurin' to
themselves, where they'll go ashore and take it easy for the rest o'
their lives. It was too good, mate, too good to be true."

There was a pause. "Yes," said the Dago at last. "It was too good,
Dan."

Dan gave his arm a grip, and left him to his look out over a sea
whose shores were now as desolate as itself, a man henceforth to be
counted sane, since he knew life as bare of beauty, sordid and
difficult.

Dan put his pipe in his pocket and walked aft to the main hatch,
where the men were gathered for the leisure of the dog-watch. He went
at his usual deliberate gai