The Ice Pilot

Excerpt: It was raining in San Francisco. Over that Bagdad of the West a thin drizzling mist swept like some fine seiner's net; over the Bay a fog hung. A man stood alone on the crest of Telegraph Hill. Below him the city stretched with its square-checked habitations; its long, blurred lanes of lights; its trolley cars creeping like glow-worms up and down the slippery inclines. That evening the ma...