But why was I in the middle of Canada going west， whenmy grandparents lived in England？ Promptly I created amarried sister who lived in California. She would take careof me. I developed at length her loving nature. But they werenot done with me， those hard-hearted policemen. I had joinedthe Glenmore in England； in the two years that had elapsedbefore my desertion at Montreal， what had the Glenmore doneand where had she been？ And thereat I took those landlubbersaround the world with me. Buffeted by pounding seas andstung with flying spray， they fought a typhoon with me off thecoast of Japan. They loaded and unloaded cargo with me in allthe ports of the Seven Seas. I took them to India， and Rangoon，and China， and had them hammer ice with me around the Hornand at last come to moorings at Montreal.
And then they said to wait a moment， and one policemanwent forth into the night while I warmed myself at the stove，all the while racking my brains for the trap they were going tospring on me.
I groaned to myself when I saw him come in the door atthe heels of the policeman. No gypsy prank had thrust thosetiny hoops of gold through the ears； no prairie winds hadbeaten that skin into wrinkled leather； nor had snow-drift andmountain-slope put in his walk that reminiscent roll. And inthose eyes， when they looked at me， I saw the unmistakablesun-wash of the sea. Here was a theme， alas！ with half a dozenpolicemen to watch me read—I who had never sailed theChina seas， nor been around the Horn， nor looked with myeyes upon India and Rangoon.
I was desperate. Disaster stalked before me incarnate inthe form of that gold-ear-ringed， weather-beaten son of thesea. Who was he？ What was he？ I must solve him ere hesolved me. I must take a new orientation， or else those wickedpolicemen would orientate me to a cell， a police court， andmore cells. If he questioned me first， before I knew how muchhe knew， I was lost.
But did I betray my desperate plight to those lynx-eyedguardians of the public welfare of Winnipeg？ Not I. I met thataged sailorman glad-eyed and beaming， with all the simulatedrelief at deliverance that a drowning man would display onfinding a life-preserver in his last despairing clutch. Here wasa man who understood and who would verify my true storyto the faces of those sleuth-hounds who did not understand，or， at least， such was what I endeavored to play-act. I seizedupon him； I volleyed him with questions about himself. Beforemy judges I would prove the character of my savior before hesaved me.
He was a kindly sailorman—an “easy mark.” The policemengrew impatient while I questioned him. At last one of themtold me to shut up. I shut up； but while I remained shut up， Iwas busy creating， busy sketching the scenario of the next act.
I had learned enough to go on with. He was a Frenchman. Hehad sailed always on French merchant vessels， with the oneexception of a voyage on a “lime-juicer.” And last of all—blessed fact！—he had not been on the sea for twenty years.
The policeman urged him on to examine me.
“You called in at Rangoon？” he queried.
I nodded. “We put our third mate ashore there. Fever.”
If he had asked me what kind of fever， I should haveanswered， “Enteric，” though for the life of me I didn’t knowwhat enteric was. But he didn’t ask me. Instead， his nextquestion was：—
“And how is Rangoon？”
“All right. It rained a whole lot when we were there.”
“Did you get shore-leave？”
“Sure，” I answered. “Three of us apprentices went ashoretogether.”
“Do you remember the temple？”
“Which temple？” I parried.
“The big one， at the top of the stairway.”
If I remembered that temple， I knew I’d have to describe it.
The gulf yawned for me.
I shook my head.
“You can see it from all over the harbor，” he informed me.
“You don’t need shore-leave to see that temple.”
I never loathed a temple so in my life. But I fixed thatparticular temple at Rangoon.
“You can’t see it from the harbor，” I contradicted. “Youcan’t see it from the town. You can’t see it from the top of thestairway. Because—” I paused for the effect. “Because thereisn’t any temple there.”
“But I saw it with my own eyes！” he cried.
“That was in—？” I queried.
“Seventy-one.”
“It was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1887，” Iexplained. “It was very old.”
There was a pause. He was busy reconstructing in his oldeyes the youthful vision of that fair temple by the sea.
“The stairway is still there，” I aided him. “You can see itfrom all over the harbor. And you remember that little islandon the right-hand side coming into the harbor？” I guess theremust have been one there （I was prepared to shift it over to theleft-hand side）， but he nodded. “Gone，” I said. “Seven fathomsof water there now.”
I had gained a moment for breath. While he pondered ontime’s changes， I prepared the finishing touches of my story.
“You remember the custom-house at Bombay？”
He remembered it.
“Burned to the ground，” I announced.
“Do you remember Jim Wan？” he came back at me.
“Dead，” I said； but who the devil Jim Wan was I hadn’t theslightest idea.
I was on thin ice again.
“Do you remember Billy Harper， at Shanghai？” I queriedback at him quickly.
That aged sailorman worked hard to recollect， but the BillyHarper of my imagination was beyond his faded memory.
“Of course you remember Billy Harper，” I insisted.
“Everybody knows him. He’s been there forty years. Well， he’sstill there， that’s all.”
And then the miracle happened. The sailorman rememberedBilly Harper. Perhaps there was a Billy Harper， and perhaps hehad been in Shanghai for forty years and was still there； but itwas news to me.
For fully half an hour longer， the sailorman and I talked onin similar fashion. In the end he told the policemen that I waswhat I represented myself to be， and after a night’s lodgingand a breakfast I was released to wander on westward to mymarried sister in San Francisco.