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a
palpable relief I did not need to climb it.  Hoisting again my all but empty
valise, I followed the stationmaster’s directions towards the harbour, where I had
wired ahead for accommodations.  It turned out to be less work to find the
place than it was to clear a circle in the greasy dust to sit down in my room,
but I consoled myself that the price of my lodgings was in keeping with their
quality.  After settling in, a process comprised of putting my bag down on the
bed, I resolved to regard the lack of comfort as an advantage, as it reinforced
my commitment to track down Mr. Longbottom posthaste.  When I enquired about the
Wharf Street address, the proprietor shuffled his feet and muttered that only
fishermen should have business by the docks, and thus I elected to find it
myself.
    I
would be pressed to imagine a less welcoming sight than the grey fishing
vessels of Kingsport harbour, rocking hollowly in their births.  An
unseasonably cold wind darted into my cuffs and collar whenever the opportunity
presented, and the gloaming’s uncertain light made it seem wherever I glanced that
small creatures had in the previous instant flitted into cover.
    Presently,
I arrived at 77 Wharf Street, a miserable clapboard structure that looked to
have lost a few fights to its brick brothers.  It didn’t appear to be a private
residence, but neither did any shingle announce it as a business.  Finding no
clues at the window, so begrimed it revealed nothing but a warm yellow light, I
knocked.  The door was opened immediately by a middle-aged man in a cook’s apron,
who regarded me with a sour squint.  The noise behind him suggested a
restaurant or similar gathering place.  He continued to watch me suspiciously
while I waited for some kind of greeting.  His patience won out.
    “Are
you going to let me in?” I asked.
    Before
he could make up his mind, I was shifted aside by another man who moved past
unchallenged.  At an almost imperceptible nod from this newcomer, the proprietor
waved me in impatiently, as if my dawdling on the stoop was putting him out.  With
a groan and a squeak, the door was secured again at my back.
    Bo’sun
Longbottom’s address was a speakeasy, one of those secret establishments which
the federal prohibition against alcohol had made as rare as mice in a grain
silo.  I ordered a pint of bitter ale and sat at a table.  The predictable maritime
theme was in effect, featuring raddled nets, an anchor, and an assortment of scratched
brass fixtures.  The customers were each one dressed like fishermen, but none
so perfectly as he who had nodded over my shoulder at the door.  That gentleman
had the salt-stained look of a lifelong seaman, his cap made shapeless by wind
and wave, his homespun sweater fashioned more of holes than wool.  I half
expected barnacles were making their home beneath his white muttonchops.  I was
staring at him in fascination as I asked the passing barman, “I wonder if you were
acquainted with my uncle.  He was in the merchant marine, used to travel in
these parts.”
    “No,
not at all,” he said gruffly, and started to move off, as if urgent business
called.
    “Can
I tell you his name before you deny him?” I said sharply.  “It was Eamon Sloan.”
    “No,
sir,” he said, and with the pretense of considering my question, “I’ve been
introduced to no such person.”
    “What
about a sailor named Longbottom?” I said.  “He served alongside my uncle.  I
have a letter posted by him from this address.”
    “I
know plenty of fat bottoms, but no Longbottoms.  This building was a lot of
things before the Volstead Act, maybe even the flop of some poor beggar name of
Longbottom.  Now I’ll thank you to leave me to my work.”
    The
background murmuring had dropped off abruptly during our exchange, and I looked
from man to man, hoping to catch a reaction from some corner of the room, but they
carefully avoided my gaze.  Everyone but the whiskered old salt in the