Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

By RICHARD C. McKAY A NOVELETTE—COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE FOREWORD OME years ago, at the close of every yachting season, there forgathered at Krom- S bach’s saloon, opposite Tebo’s well-known Yacht Basin, Brooklyn, the masters, officers and sailormen who had not only sailed to victory many of the beautiful craft then laid up for the winter, but who had materially contributed in making the American yacht and yachtsmen world famous and happy. It was at one of these gatherings that Hunt, the hero of this story, narrated to the writer this singular adventure of his younger days. An unusually active young looking old man, natty and neat in a perfect fitting yachting uniform, Hunt belied the sixty odd years that had rolled over his head since he first saw the sands of his native Cape Cod. He now pursued the somewhat prosaic career of chief steward on a multi-miliionaire’s yachting palace, and none of the distinguished social or financial elect who went ss aboard as guests of the Wall Street magnate ever dreamed that the quiet, unobtrusive, ‘gentlemanly ship’s servant, who served them so capably with liquid refreshments, as well as taking efficient care of their personal requirements, possessed a real note- worthy record of seafaring achievement. T was in the halcyon days of the Yankee athlete; and despite the ultrafashionable | ship and the Yankee crew, in the. au- cut of his clothes, the air of a deep water tumn of 1857, when a neatly dressed, sailor about him was not disguised. Many natty looking man picked his way down a critical glance he cast aloft at the ves- South Street and across to Pier 12, East sels along the river, with now and then a River. His nervous, springy step betok- nod to a passing acquaintance as he leis- ened a person in high health, in fact, an urely made his way along. At the cross- ™ 816 1A COMMEOOKS.EO