c-hall,
something in the programme, or the audience, will set me musing, and
Chubby will be neglected. I think I shall buy two tickets, and let
Chubby take someone else--George the Fourth, say!

And Baby, fingering the silk I have brought her--Baby personifies for
me that terrible problem which women and men treat so callously. Baby
has already passed several milestones on the road to Alsatia and we
shall meet her some day, somewhere between Hyde Park Corner and
Wardour Street.

But that is far away yet. The glamour of the thing, its risk, its
pleasantness, are over her as yet. Officers of the Mercantile Marine
are not squeamish in a home port, nor are they scarce. Baby's rings
are worth good money. The sordid bickerings of the trade are in the
future, the callous calculations, the indispensable whiskey.

Now, while Baby is bending the violet eyes of hers upon a piece of
Moorish silk, let me clear my mind of humbug. I am no sentimentalist
in this matter. I am not certain, yet, that "my lady" of to-day is
the sole repository of every virtue; neither am I dogmatic about
"necessary vice," the "irreducible minimum," and such-like large
viewpoints. I have, indeed, nursed a theory that our floating
population might be induced to receive a certain percentage of these
adjuncts to civilisation, one or two on each ship, say, with results
satisfactory to all concerned. Everyone knows that, in towns, the
demand is grotesquely disproportionate to the supply. The Board of
Trade could deal with the question of certificates of competency.

As I sit in this bar-parlour, it seems to me that an inextinguishable
howl of horror is rising from the people of England. And as I desire
to be honest, I admit that I am overawed by that same tumult--a sort
of singing in my ears--and so leave the problem to Mr. H. G. Wells, or
someone else who deals habitually in social seismics.

After all, descriptions of sea-port barmaids can scarcely be
interesting to my friend. If she lose no time in providing him with
hot rum and water (not ungenerous with the sugar), she can rival
either Pompadour or La Pelletier--he cares not which. Which is the
callous regard of the whole business to which I have referred.

Once more adrift, I wend my way dockwards, pause at the Seamen's
Mission, hesitate, and am lost. I enter a workhouse-like room, and a
colourless man nods good-afternoon. Conveniences for "writing home,"
newspapers, magazines, flamboyant almanacks