And We Sailed

O Johnny's gone to Baltimore
To dance upon that sanded floor.
O Johnny's gone for evermore;
I'll never see my John no more!
O Johnny's gone!
What shall I do?
A-way you. H-e-e l-o-o-o!
O Johnny's gone!
What shall I do?
Johnny's gone to Hilo.
--Old Hauling Song.

The taciturn secretary fumbled his way forward and delivered to Captain
Mayo a little packet securely bound with tape.

"Orders from Mr. Marston that you take these ashore, yourself. They are
important telegrams and he wants them hurried."

The master called his men to the dinghy, and they rowed him away through
the fog. It was a touchy job, picking his way through that murk. He
stood up, leaning forward holding to his taut tiller-ropes, and more
by ears than his eyes directed his course. A few of the anchored craft,
knowing that they were in the harbor roadway, clanged their bells
lazily once in a while. Yacht tenders were making their rounds, carrying
parties who were paying and returning calls, and these boats were
avoiding each other by loud hails. Small objects loomed largely and
little sounds were accentuated.

The far voice of an unseen joker announced that he could find his way
through the fog all right, but was afraid he had not strength enough to
push his boat through it.

But Mayo knew his waters in that harbor, and found his way to the wharf.
His real difficulties confronted him at the village telegraph office.
The visiting yachtsmen had flooded the place with messages, and the
flustered young woman was in a condition nearly resembling hysteria. She
was defiantly declaring that she would not accept any more telegrams.
Instead of setting at work upon those already filed she was spending her
time explaining her limitations to later arrivals.