DOCUMENTARIES VIII. VANCOUVER Ten P.M. has just struck barely heard through the thick fog that muffles the docks and the ships in the harbor The wharfs are deserted and the town is wrapped in sleep You stroll along a low sandy shore swept by an icy wind and the long billows of the Pacific That lurid spot in the dank darkness is the station of the Canadian Grand Trunk And those bluish patches in the wind are the liners bound for the Klondike Japan and the West Indies It is so dark that I can hardly make out the signs in the streets where hugging a heavy suitcase I am looking for a cheap hotel Everyone is on board The oarsmen are bent on their oars and the heavy craft loaded to the brim plows through the high waves A small hunchback at the helm checks the tiller now and then Adjusting his steering through the fog to the calls of a foghorn We bump against the dark bulk of the ship and on the starboard quarter Samoyed dogs are climbing up Flaxen in the gray-white-yellow As if fog was being taken in freight
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