"Well, young man, what do you think of her?"
The question was addressed to me in a very pleasantly modulated female
voice, carrying just the slightest suspicion of an American accent. For
the fraction of a second I was a wee bit startled. I had not had the
ghost of a suspicion that anyone was nearer me than the gang of
labourers who were busily engaged in unloading a big delivery wagon and
transferring the contents, in the shape of numerous packing cases, to
the deck of the vessel which I was scrutinising. It was afternoon of a
grey day in the latter part of October three years ago; and the scene
was one of the wharves of the east basin of the London Docks, round
which I had been prowling in search of a ship. I had been thus engaged
ever since nine o'clock that morning, interviewing skippers and mates,
so far unsuccessfully, when I was "brought up all standing" by finding
myself in close proximity to a white-hulled, ship-rigged craft of, I
estimated, some two thousand five hundred tons measurement.
She was steel-built, with steel lower masts, bowsprit, and lower and
topsail yards; and even if she had not been sporting the ensign of the
New York Yacht Club at her ensign staff and its burgee at her main
royal-mast-head, I should still have known her for a yacht from the
perfection of her lines, the dainty and exquisite beauty of her shape,
the whiteness of her decks (notwithstanding their somewhat littered
condition), the beautiful modelling of her boats, her polished teak
rails, and generally the high finish and perfect cleanliness of her deck
fittings. She was as heavily rigged as a frigate; moreover, although no
guns were visible, I observed that her main-deck bulwarks were pierced
with six ports of a side, in the wake of which steel racers were bolted
to the deck; also she sported hammock rails, which I had never seen
before except in pictures of old-fashioned wooden men-o'-war. A gilt
cable moulding ornamented her sheer strake; a beautifully carved and
gilded full-length figure of a woman wearing a star of cut-glass facets
on her forehead formed her figurehead; and her quarters were adorned
with a considerable amount of gilded scroll-work. Her elliptical stern
bore, in large gilded block letters, the words: Stella Maris. New York.
As the enquiry with which I have opened this story reached my ears, I
wheeled round and found myself face to face with a little lady. She was
very richly dressed in silk and furs, quite colourless as to complexion,
but with a fine pair of deep violet eyes and a quantity of dark chestnut
hair loosely coiled under an immense hat rigged with black ostrich
plumes. I put her down in my own mind as being something over
thirty-six years of age, and I subsequently learned that I was not very
far out.
Her eyes were dancing with amusement as I wheeled sharply round upon
her; and as my hand went up to my cap she laughed a low, musical laugh.
"Guess I startled you some, didn't I?" she remarked in that pleasant
voice of hers. "You were so completely absorbed by the charms of
_Stella Maris_ that you had neither eyes nor ears for anybody else.
Well, what do you think of her?"
I was bareheaded by this time, but still a trifle confused at the
suddenness and unconventionality of my companion's address; yet I
quickly recovered my equanimity.
"She is the most lovely craft I ever set eyes on, bar none," I answered
with enthusiasm.
"Yes, she is a real daisy," agreed my companion. "Do you know what she
is?"
"I know what she ought to be," I said; "and that is, flagship of the
Club. But I see by her burgee that she is merely the property of one of
its members."
"That is so," returned the lady; "but I guess it's good enough. Say,
would you like to go aboard and have a look at her from inside?"
"Indeed I should, if her owner would not--"