I Attempt The Following Sketches In
Deference To These Suggestions, And Not, I Trust, With Any Undue
Estimate Of The General Interest My Narrative May Have Created.
Something less than a year after my return in the Alert, and when,
my eyes having recovered, I was
Again in college life, I found one
morning in the newspapers, among the arrivals of the day before,
"The brig Pilgrim, Faucon, from San Diego, California." In a
few hours I was down in Ann Street, and on my way to Hackstadt's
boarding-house, where I knew Tom Harris and others would lodge.
Entering the front room, I heard my name called from amid a group
of blue-jackets, and several sunburned, tar-colored men came forward
to speak to me. They were, at first, a little embarrassed by
the dress and style in which they had never seen me, and one of
them was calling me Mr. Dana; but I soon stopped that, and we
were shipmates once more. First, there was Tom Harris, in a
characteristic occupation. I had made him promise to come and
see me when we parted in San Diego; he had got a directory of
Boston, found the street and number of my father's house, and,
by a study of the plan of the city, had laid out his course,
and was committing it to memory. He said he could go straight to
the house without asking a question. And so he could, for I took
the book from him, and he gave his course, naming each street and
turn to right or left, directly to the door.
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