y 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 there was any particular strain," I answered. "It
seems as simple as A, B, C. They know the direction by compass, the
distance, and the speed.