I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of labour which madeit unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and navigation, in order to visitmy friend who lived across an arm of the sea. It was good that men should bespecialists, I mused. The peculiar knowledge of the pilot and captain sufficed formany thousands of people who knew no more of the sea and navigation than Iknew. On the other hand, instead of having to devote my energy to the learning of amultitude of things, I concentrated it upon a few particular things, such as, forinstance, the analysis of Poe's place in American literature-an essay of mine, by theway, in the current Atlantic. Coming aboard, as I passed through the cabin, I hadnoticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the Atlantic, which was open atmy very essay. And there it was again, the division of labour, the special knowledgeof the pilot and captain which permitted the stout gentleman to read my specialknowledge on Poe while they carried him safely from Sausalito to San Francisco.A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out on thedeck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mental note of the topic for usein a projected essay which I had thought of calling "The Necessity for Freedom: APlea for the Artist." The red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house, gazedaround at the fog, stumped across the deck and back (he evidently had artificiallegs), and stood still by my side, legs wide apart, and with an expression of keen 5enjoyment on his face. I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spenton the sea."It's nasty weather like this here that turns heads grey before their time," he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house."I had not thought there was any particular strain," I answered. "It seems assimple as A, B, C. They know the direction by compass, the distance, and the speed.I should not call it anything more than mathematical certainty.""Strain!" he snorted. "Simple as A, B, C! Mathematical certainty!"He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he stared atme. "How about this here tide that's rushin' out through the Golden Gate?" hedemanded, or bellowed, rather. "How fast is she ebbin'? What's the drift, eh? Listento that, will you? A bell-buoy, and we're a-top of it! See 'em alterin' the course!"From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could see the pilotturning the wheel with great rapidity. The bell, which had seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely, and fromtime to time the sound of other whistles came to us from out of the fog."That's a ferry-boat of some sort," the new-comer said, indicating a whistle off tothe right. "And there! D'ye hear that? Blown by mouth. Some scow schooner, mostlikely. Better watch out, Mr. Schooner-man. Ah, I thought so. Now hell's a poppin'for somebody!"The unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-blown hornwas tooting in terror-stricken fashio