The Mutiny of the Elsinore

From the first the voyage was going wrong. Routed out of my hotel on a bitterMarch morning, I had crossed Baltimore and reached the pier-end precisely ontime. At nine o’clock the tug was to have taken me down the bay and put me onboard the Elsinore, and with growing irritation I sat frozen inside my taxicab andwaited. On the seat, outside, the driver and Wada sat hunched in a temperatureperhaps half a degree colder than mine. And there was no tug.