THE HARBOR

 THE HARBOR

 BY

 ERNEST POOLE

 [Illustration: Publishers mark]

 NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

 Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company. 

 COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

 Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1915 Reprinted February, 1915 Twice. March, 1915 Three Times. April, 1915 Twice May, 1915. Twice June, 1915. Twice July, 1915. August, 1915. September, October, November, December, 1915. January, 1916. March, 1916

 _TO M. A. _

THE HARBOR

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

"You chump, " I thought contemptuously. I was seven years old at thetime, and the gentleman to whom I referred was Henry Ward Beecher. Whatit was that aroused my contempt for the man will be more fullyunderstood if I tell first of the grudge that I bore him. 

I was sitting in my mother's pew in the old church in Brooklyn. I wasaltogether too small for the pew, it was much too wide for the bend atmy knees; and my legs, which were very short and fat, stuck straight outbefore me. I was not allowed to move, I was most uncomfortable, and forthis Sabbath torture I laid all the blame on the preacher. For my motherhad once told me that I was brought to church so small in order thatwhen I grew up I could say I had heard the great man preach before hedied. Hence the deep grudge that I bore him. Sitting here this morning, it seemed to me for hours and hours, I had been meditating upon my hardlot. From time to time, as was my habit when thinking or feeling deeply, one hand would unconsciously go to my head and slowly stroke my bang. Myhair was short and had no curls, its only glory was this bang, which wasdeliciously soft to my hand and shone like a mirror from much reflectivestroking. Presently my mother would notice and with a smile she wouldput down my hand, but a few moments later up it would come and wouldcontinue its stroking. For I felt both abused and puzzled. What wasthere in the talk of the large white-haired old man in the pulpit tomake my mother's eyes so queer, to make her sit so stiff and still? Whatgood would it do me when I grew up to say that I had heard him?

"I don't believe I will ever say it, " I reasoned doggedly to myself. "And even if I do, I don't believe any other man will care whether I sayit to him or not. " I felt sure my father wouldn't. He never even came tochurch. 

At the thought of my strange silent father, my mind leaped to hiswarehouse, his dock, the ships and the harbor. Like him, they were allso strange. And my hands grew a little cold and moist as I thought ofthe terribly risky thing I had planned to do all by myself that veryafternoon. I thought about it for a long time with my eyes tight shut. Then the voice of the minister brought me back, I found myself sittinghere in church and went on with this less shivery thinking. 

"I wouldn't care myself, " I decided. "If I were a man and another manmet me on the street and said, 'Look here. When I was a boy I heardHenry Ward Beecher before he died, ' I guess I would just say to him, 'You mind your business and I'll mind mine. '" This phrase I had heardfrom the corner grocer, and I liked the sound of it. I repeated it nowwith an added zest. 

Again I opened my eyes and again I found myself here in church. Stillhere. I heaved a weary sigh. 

"If you were dead already, " I thought as I looked up at the preacher, "my mother wouldn't bring me here. " I found this an exceedingly cheeringthought. I had once overheard our cook Anny describe how her old fatherhad dropped dead. I eyed the old minister hopefully. 

But what was this he was saying! Something about "the harbor of life. "The harbor! In an instant I was listening hard, for this was something Iknew about. 

"Safe into the harbor, " I heard him say. "Home to the harbor at last torest. " And then, while he passed on to something else, something I_didn't_ know about, I settled disgustedly back in the pew. 

"You chump, " I thought contemptuously. To hear him talk you would havethought the harbor was a place to feel quite safe in, a place to snuggledown in, a nice little place to come home to at night. "I guess he hasnever seen it much, " I snorted. 

For I had. From our narrow brownstone house on the Heights, ever since Icould remember (and let me tell you that seems a long time when you areseven years old), I had looked down from our back windows upon a harborthat to me was strange and terrible. 

I was glad that our house was up so high. Its front was on a sedate oldstreet, and within it everything felt safe. My mother was here, and Sue, my little sister, and old Belle, our nurse, our nursery, my games, myanimals, my fairy books, the small red table where I ate my supper, andthe warm fur rug by my bed, where I knelt for "Now I lay me. "

But from the porch at the back of our house you went three steps down toa long narrow garden--at least the garden seemed long to me--and if youwalked to the end of the garden and peered through the ivy-covered barsof the fence, as I had done when I was so little that I could barelywalk alone, you had the first mighty thrill of your life. For you foundthat through a hole in the ivy you could see a shivery distance straightdown through the air to a street below. You found that the two ironposts, one at either end of the fence, were warm when you touched them, had holes in the top, had smoke coming out--were chimneys! And slowly itdawned upon your mind that this garden of yours was nothing at all butthe roof of a gray old building--which your nurse told you vaguely hadbeen a "warehouse" long ago when the waters of the harbor had come 'wayin to the street below. The old "wharves" had been down there, she said. What was a "wharf?" It was a "dock, " she told me. And she said that afamily of "dockers" lived in the building under our garden. They wereall that was left in it now but "old junk. " Who was Old Junk, a man or awoman? And what in the world were Dockers?

Pursuing my adventurous ways, I found at one place in the garden, hiddenby flowers near a side wall, a large heavy lid which was painted brownand felt like tin. But how much heavier than tin. Tug as I might, Icould not budge it. Then I found it had an iron hook and was hooked downtight to the garden. Yes, it was true, our whole garden was a roof! Iput my ear down to the lid and listened scowling, both eyes shut. Iheard nothing then, but I came back and tried it many times, until onceI jumped up and ran like mad. For faintly from somewhere deep down underthe flower beds I had heard a baby crying! What was this baby, a Junk ora Docker? And who were these people who lived under flowers? To me theysounded suspiciously like the goblins in my goblin book. Once when I wassick in bed, Sue came shrieking into the house and said that a giant hadheaved up that great lid from below. Up had come his shaggy head, hisdirty face, his rolling eyes, and he had laughed and laughed at theflowers. He was a drunken man, our old nurse Belle had told her, but Suewas sure he was a giant. 

"You are wrong, " I said with dignity. "He is either a Junk or a Docker. "

The lid was spiked down after that, and our visitor never appearedagain. But I saw him vividly in my mind's eye--his shaggy wild headrising up among our flowers. Vaguely I felt that he came from theharbor. 

As the exciting weeks of my life went on I discovered three good holesin that ivy-covered fence of ours. These all became my secret holes, andthrough them I watched the street below, a bleak bare chasm of a streetwhich when the trucks came by echoed till it thundered. Across thestreet rose the high gray front of my father's warehouse. It was partof a solid line of similar gray brick buildings, and it was like myfather, it was grim and silent, you could not see inside. Over its fivetiers of windows black iron shutters were fastened tight. From time totime a pair of these shutters would fly open, disclosing a dark cavebehind, out of which men brought barrels and crates and let them down byropes into the trucks on the street below. How they spun round and roundas they came! But most of the trucks drove rumbling into a tunnel whichled through the warehouse out to my father's dock, out to the ships andthe harbor. And from that mysterious region long lines of men camethrough the tunnel at noontime, some nearly naked, some only in shirts, men with the hairiest faces. They sat on the street with their backs tothe warehouse wall, eating their dinners out of pails, and from otherpails they took long drinks of a curious stuff all white on top. Some ofthem were always crossing the street and disappearing from my view intoa little store directly underneath me. Belle spoke of this store as a"vile saloon" and of these men as "dockers. " So I knew what Dockers wereat last! In place of the one who lived under our garden and had burst upamong the flowers, I saw now that there were hundreds and thousands ofmen like him down there on the docks. And all belonged to the harbor. 

Their work I learned was to load the ships whose masts and spars peepedup at me over the warehouse roofs. From my nursery window above I couldsee them better. Sometimes they had large white sails and then theymoved off somewhere. I could see them go, these tall ships, with theirsails making low, mysterious sounds, flappings, spankings and deepboomings. The men on them sang the weirdest songs as they pulled alltogether at the ropes. Some of these songs brought a lump in yourthroat. Where were they going? "To heathen lands, " Belle told me. Whatdid she mean? I was just going to ask her. But then I stopped--I did notdare! From up the river, under the sweeping arch of that Great Bridgewhich seemed high as the clouds, came more tall ships, and low"steamers" belching smoke and "tugs" and "barges" and "ferry boats. " Thenames of all these I learned from Belle and Anny the cook and my mother. And all were going "to heathen lands. " What in the world did Belle meanby that?

Once I thought I had it. I saw that some of these smaller boats werejust going across the river and stopping at the land over there, a landso crowded with buildings you could barely see into it at all. "Is thata heathen land?" I asked her. "Yes!" said Belle. And she laughed. Shewas Scotch and very religious. But later I heard her call it "New York"and say she was going there herself to buy herself some corsets. And soI was even more puzzled than ever. For some deep instinct told me youcould buy no corsets in "heathen land"--least of all Belle's corsets. 

She often spoke of "the ocean, " too, another place where the tall shipswent. But what was the ocean? "It's like a lake, but mightier, " Bellehad said. But what was a lake? It was all so vague and confusing. Alwaysit came back to this, that I had no more seen the "ocean" than I hadseen a "heathen land, " and so I did not know them. 

But I knew the harbor by day and by night, on bright sunny days and infogs and rains, in storms of wind, in whirling snow, and under therestful stars at night that twinkled down from so far above, while theshadowy region below twinkled back with stars of its own, restless, many-colored stars, yellow, green and red and blue, moving, dancing, flaring, dying. And all these stars had voices, too. By night in my bedI could hear them--hoots and shrieks from ferries and tugs, hoarsecoughs from engines along the docks, the whine of wheels, the clang ofbells, deep blasts and bellows from steamers. And closer still, fromthat "vile saloon" directly under the garden, I could hear wild shoutsand songs and roars of laughter that came, I learned, not only fromdockers, but from "stokers" and "drunken sailors, " men who lived rightinside the ships and would soon be starting for heathen lands!

"I wonder how I'd feel, " I would think, "if I were out in the gardennow--out in the dark all by myself--right above that vile saloon!"

This would always scare me so that I would bury my head in the coversand shake. But I often did this, for I liked to be scared. It was a gameI had all by myself with the harbor. 

 * * * * *

And yet this old man in the pulpit called it a place where you went torest!

Twenty-five years have gone since then, and all that I can remember nowof anything Henry Ward Beecher said was this--that once, just once, Iheard him speak of something that I knew about, and that when he did hewas wrong. 

And though all the years since then have been for me one long story of aharbor, restless, heaving, changing, always changing--it has neverchanged for me in this--it has never seemed a haven where ships come todock, but always a place from which ships start out--into the storms andthe fogs of the seas, over the "ocean" to "heathen lands. " For so I sawit when I was a child, the threshold of adventures. 

CHAPTER II

As I walked home from church with my mother that day the streets seemedas quiet and safe as her eyes. How suddenly tempting it seemed to me, this quiet and this safety, compared to the place where I was going. ForI had decided to run away from my home and my mother that afternoon, down to the harbor to see the world. What would become of me 'way downthere? What would she do if I never came back? A lump rose in my throatat the thought of her tears. It was terrible. 

"All the same I am going to do it, " I kept thinking doggedly. And yetsuddenly, as we reached our front steps, how near I came to telling her. But no, she would only spoil it all. She wanted me always up in thegarden, she wanted me never to have any thrills. 

My mother knew me so well. She had seen that when she read stories offairies, witches and goblins out of my books to Sue and me, while Sue, though two years younger, would sit there like a little dark imp, herblack eyes snapping over the fights, I would creep softly out of theroom, ashamed and shaken, and would wait in the hall outside till thehappy ending was in plain view. So my mother had gradually toned downall the fights and the killings, the witches and the monsters, and muchto my disappointment had wholly shut out the gory pirates who were forme the most frightfully fascinating of all. Sometimes I felt vaguelythat for this she had her own reason, too--that my mother hatedeverything that had to do with the ocean, especially my father's dockthat made him so gloomy and silent. But of this I could never be quitesure. I would often watch her intently, with a sudden sharp anxiety, for I loved my mother with all my soul and I could not bear to see herunhappy. 

"Never on any account, " I heard her say to Belle, "are the children togo down the street toward the docks. "

"Yes, ma'am, " said Belle. "I'll see to it. "

At once I wanted to go there. The street in front of our house slopedabruptly down at the next corner two blocks through poorer and smallerhouses to a cobblestone space below, over which trucks clattered, plainly on their way to the docks. So I could go down and around by thatway. How tempting it all looked down there. Above the roofs of thehouses, the elevated railroad made a sharp bend on its way to theBridge, trains roared by, high over all the Great Bridge swept acrossthe sky. And below all this and more thrilling than all, I caughtglimpses of strange, ragged boys. "Micks, " Belle sometimes called them, and sometimes, "Finian Mickies. " Up here I had no playmates. 

From now on, our garden lost its charms. Up the narrow courtway whichran along the side of the house I would slip stealthily to the frontgate and often get a good look down the street before Belle sharplycalled me back. The longest looks, I found, were always on Sundayafternoons, when Belle would sit back there in the garden, close to thebed of red tulips which encircled a small fountain made of two whiteangels. Belle, who was bony, tall and grim, would sit by the littleangels reading her shabby Bible. Her face was wrinkled and almost brown, her eyes now kind, now gloomy. She had a song she would sing now andthen. "For beneath the Union Jack we will drive the Finians back"--isall I can remember. She told me of witches in the Scotch hills. At hertouch horrible monsters rose in the most surprising places. In thebathtub, for example, when I stayed in the bath too long she would jerkout the stopper, and as from the hole there came a loud gurgle--"It'sthe Were-shark, " Belle would mutter. And I would leap out trembling. 

This old "Were-shark" had his home in the very middle of the ocean. Inone gulp he could swallow a boy of my size, and this he did three timeseach day. The boys were brought to him by the "Condor, " a perfectlyhideous bird as large as a cow and as fierce as a tiger. If ever I daredgo down that street and disobey my mother, the Condor would "swoop" downover the roofs, snatch me up in his long yellow beak with the blood ofthe last boy on it, and with thunder and lightning would carry me offfar over the clouds and drop me into the Were-shark's mouth. 

Then Belle would sit down to her Bible. 

Sunday after Sunday passed, and still in fascinated dread I would stealquietly out to the gate and watch this street forbidden. Pointing to itone day, Belle had declared in awful tones, "Broad is the way thatleadeth to destruction. " But it was not broad. In that at least she wasall wrong. It was in fact so narrow that a Condor as big as a cow mighteasily bump himself when he "swooped. " Besides, there were good stronglamp-posts where a little boy could cling and scream, and almost alwayssomewhere in sight was a policeman so fat and heavy that even twoCondors could hardly lift him from the ground. This policeman would comerunning. My mother had said I must never be scared by policemen, becausethey were really good kind men. In fact, she said, it was foolish to bescared by anything ever. She never knew of Belle's methods with me. 

 * * * * *

So at last I had decided to risk it, and now the fearful day had come. Icould barely eat my dinner. My courage was fast ebbing away. In thedining-room the sunlight was for a time wiped out by clouds, and I grewsuddenly happy. It might rain and then I could not go. But it did notrain nor did anything I hoped for happen to prevent my plan. Belle satdown by the angels and was soon so deep in her Bible that it was plain Icould easily slip up the path. Sue never looked up from her sand-pileto say, "Stop Billy! He's running away from home!" With a gulp I passedmy mother's window. She did not happen to look out. Now I had reachedthe very gate. "I can't go! I can't open the gate!" But the old gateopened with one push. "I can't go! There is no policeman!" But yes, there he was on my side of the street slowly walking toward me. My heartthumped, I could hardly breathe. In a moment with a frantic rush I hadreached the nearest lamp-post and was clinging breathless. I could notscream, I shut my eyes in sickening fear and waited for the rushing ofenormous wings. 

But there came no Condor swooping. 

Another rush--another post--another and another!

"What's the matter with you, little feller?"

I looked up at the big safe policeman and laughed. 

"I'm playing a game, " I almost shouted, and ran without touching anotherpost two blocks to the cobblestone space below. I ran blindly around itseveral times, I bumped into a man who said, "Heigh there! Look out!"After that I strutted proudly, then turned and ran back with all mymight up the street, and into our house and up to my room. And there onmy bed to my great surprise I found myself sobbing and sobbing. It was along time before I could stop. I had had my first adventure. 

 * * * * *

I made many Sunday trips after that, and on no one of them was I caught. For delighted and proud at what I had done I kept asking Belle to talkof the Condor, gloomily she piled on the terrors, and seeing the awedlook in my eyes (awe at my own courage in defying such a bird), she feltso sure of my safety that often she would barely look up from her Biblethe whole afternoon. Even on workdays over her sewing she would forget. And so I went "to destruction. "

At first I stayed but a little while and never left the cobblestonespace, only peering up into the steep little streets that led to thefearsome homes of the "Micks. " But then I made the acquaintance of Sam. It happened through a small toy boat which I had taken down there withthe purpose of starting it off for "heathen lands. " As I headed acrossthe railroad tracks that led to the docks, suddenly Sam and his gangappeared from around a freight car. I stood stock-still. They werecertainly "Micks"--ragged and dirty, with holes in their shoes and sooton their faces. Sam was smoking a cigarette. 

"Heigh, fellers, " he said, "look at Willy's boat. "

I clutched my boat tighter and turned to run. But the next moment Samhad me by the arm. 

"Look here, young feller, " he growled. "You've got the wrong man to dobusiness with this time. "

"I don't want to do any business, " I gasped. 

"Smash him, Sam--smash in his nut for him, " piped the smallest Mickycheerfully. And this Sam promptly proceeded to do. It was a wild andpainful time. But though Sam was two years older, he was barely anylarger than I, and when he and his gang had gone off with my boat, as Istood there breathing hard, I was filled with a grim satisfaction. Foronce when he tried to wrench the boat from me I had hit him with itright on the face, and I had had a glimpse of a thick red mark acrosshis cheek. I tasted something new in my mouth and spit it out. It wasblood. I did this several times, slowly and impressively, till it made agood big spot on the railroad tie at my feet. Then I walked with dignityback across the tracks and up "the way of destruction" home. I walkedslowly, planning as I went. At the gate I climbed up on it and swung. Then with a sudden loud cry I fell off and ran back into the gardencrying, "I fell off the gate! I fell on my face!" So my cut and swollenlip was explained, and my trips were not discovered. 

I felt myself growing older fast. For I knew that I could both fight andtell lies, besides defying the Condor. 

In the next years, for weeks at a time my life was centered on Sam andhis gang. How we became friends, how often we met, by just what means Ievaded my nurse, all these details are vague to me now. I am not evensure I was never caught. But it seems to me that I was not. For as Igrew to be eight years old, Belle turned her attention more and more tothat impish little sister of mine who was always up to some mischief orother. There was the corner grocer, too, with whom I pretended to bestaunch friends. "I'm going to see the grocer, " I would say, when Iheard Sam's cautious whistle in front of the house--and so presently Iwould join the gang. I followed Sam with a doglike devotion, giving upmy weekly twenty-five cents instead of saving it for Christmas, and inreturn receiving from him all the world-old wisdom stored in thatbullet-shaped head of his which sat so tight on his round littleshoulders. 

And though I did not realize it then, in my tense crowded childhood, through Sam and his companions I learned something else that was tostand me in good stead years later on. I learned how to make friendswith "the slums. " I discovered that by making friends with "Micks" and"Dockers" and the like, you find they are no fearful goblins, giantsbursting savagely up among the flowers of your life, but people as humanas yourself, or rather, much more human, because they live so close tothe harbor, close to the deep rough tides of life. 

Into these tides I was now drawn down--and it did me some good and agreat deal of harm. For I was too little those days for the harbor. 

Sam had the most wonderful life in the world. He could go wherever heliked and at any hour day or night. Once, he said, when a "feller" wasdrowned, he had stayed out on the docks all night. His mother always lethim alone. An enormous woman with heavy eyes, I was in awe of her fromthe first. The place that she kept with Sam's father was called "TheSailor's Harbor. " It stood on a corner down by the docks, a long, lowwooden building painted white, with twelve tight-shuttered, mysteriouswindows along the second story, and below them a "Ladies' Entrance. " Infront was a small blackboard with words in white which Sam could read. "Ten Cent Dinners" stood at the top. Below came, "Coffee and rolls. "Next, "Ham and eggs. " Then "Bacon and eggs. " And then, "To-day"--with aspace underneath where Sam's fat father wrote down every morning stillmore delicious eatables. You got whiffs of these things and they madeyour mouth water, they made your stomach fairly turn against yournursery supper. 

But most of our time we spent on the docks. All were roofed, andexploring the long dock sheds and climbing down into the dark holds ofthe square-rigged ships called "clippers, " we found logs of curiousmottled wood, huge baskets of sugar, odorous spices, indigo, camphor, tea, coffee, jute and endless other things. Sam knew their names and thenames of the wonder-places they came from--Manila, Calcutta, Bombay, Ceylon. He knew besides such words as "hawser, " "bulkhead" and"ebb-tide. " And Sam knew how to swear. He swore with a fascinating easesuch words as made me shiver and stare. And then he would look at me andchuckle. 

"You think I'll go to hell for this, don't you, " he asked me once. Andmy face grew hot with embarrassment, for I thought that he assuredlywould. 

I asked him what were heathen lands, and he said they were countrieswhere heathen lived. And what were heathen? Cannibals. And what werethey?

"Fellers that eat fellers, " he said. 

"Alive?" I inquired. He turned to the gang:

"Listen to the kid! He wants to know if they eat 'em alive!" Sam spatdisgustedly. "Naw, " he said. "First they roast 'em like any meat. Theyroast 'em, " he added reflectively, "until their skin gets brown andbubbles out and busts. "

One afternoon a carriage brought three travelers for one of the ships, aman, his wife and a little girl with shining yellow pig-tails. "To beet, " Sam whispered as we stood close beside them. And then, pointing tosome of the half-naked brown men that made the crew of the ship nearby--"cannibals, " he muttered. For a long time I stared at these eaters, especially at their lean brown stomachs. 

"We're safe enough, " Sam told me. "They ain't allowed to come ashore. " Ifound this very comforting. 

But what a frightful fate lay in store for the little girl withpig-tails. As I watched her I felt worse and worse. Why couldn'tsomebody warn her in time? At last I decided to do it myself. Procuringa scrap of paper I retired behind a pile of crates and wrote in mylarge, clumsy hand, "You look out--you are going to be et. " Watching mychance, I slipped this into her satchel and hoped that she would read itsoon. Then I promptly forgot all about her and ran off into a warehousewhere the gang had gone to slide. 

These warehouses had cavernous rooms, so dark you could not see to theends, and there from between the wooden columns the things from theships loomed out of the dark like so many ghosts. There were strangesweet smells. And from a hole in the ceiling there was a twisting chuteof steel down which you could slide with terrific speed. We used toslide by the hour. 

Outside were freight cars in long lines, some motionless, some suddenlylurching forward or back, with a grinding and screeching of wheels and apuffing and coughing from engines ahead. Sam taught me how to climb onthe cars and how to swing off while they were going. He had learned fromwatching the brakemen that dangerous backward left-hand swing that landsyou stock-still in your tracks. It is a splendid feeling. Only onceSam's left hand caught, I heard a low cry, and after I jumped I foundhim standing there with a white face. His left hand hung straight downfrom the wrist and blood was dripping from it. 

"Shut up, you damn fool!" he said fiercely. 

"I wasn't saying nothing, " I gasped. 

"Yes, you was--you was startin' to cry! Holy Christ!" He sat downsuddenly, then rolled over and lay still. Some one ran for his mother, and after a time he was carried away. I did not see him again for someweeks. 

We did things that were bad for a boy of my size, and I saw things thatI shouldn't have seen--a docker crushed upon one of the docks andbrought out on a stretcher dead, a stoker as drunk as though he weredead being wheeled on a wheelbarrow to a ship by the man called a"crimp, " who sold this drunken body for an advance on its future pay. Sam told me in detail of these things. There came a strike, and once inthe darkness of a cold November twilight I saw some dockers rush on a"scab, " I heard the dull sickening thumps as they beat him. 

And one day Sam took me to the door of his father's saloon and pointedout a man in there who had an admiring circle around him. 

"He's going to jump from the Bridge on a bet, " Sam whispered. I saw theman go. For what seemed to me hours I watched the Great Bridge up therein the sky, with its crawling processions of trolleys and wagons, itswhole moving armies of little black men. Suddenly one of these tinyspecks shot out and down, I saw it fall below the roofs, I felt Sam'shand like ice in mine. And this was not good for a boy of ten. 

But the sight that ended it all for me was not a man, but a woman. Ithappened one chilly March afternoon when I fell from a dock into watercovered with grease and foam, came up spluttering and terrified, wasquickly hauled to the dock by a man and then hustled by Sam and the gangto his home, to have my clothes dried and so not get caught by mymother. Scolded by Sam's mother and given something fiery hot to drink, stripped naked and wrapped in an old flannel nightgown and told to sitby the stove in the kitchen--I was then left alone with Sam. And thenSam with a curious light in his eyes took me to a door which he openedjust a crack. Through the crack he showed me a small back room full ofround iron tables. And at one of these a man, stoker or sailor I don'tknow which, his face flushed red under dirt and hair, held in his lap abig fat girl half dressed, giggling and queer, quite drunk. And thenwhile Sam whispered on and on about the shuttered rooms upstairs, I felta rush of such sickening fear and loathing that I wanted to scream--butI turned too faint. 

I remember awakening on the floor, Sam's mother furiously slapping Sam, then dressing me quickly, gripping me tight by both my arms and saying, "You tell a word of this to your pa and we'll come up and kill you!"

That night at home I did not sleep. I lay in my bed and shivered andburned. My first long exciting adventure was over. Ended were all thethrills, the wild fun. It was a spree I had had with the harbor, fromthe time I was seven until I was ten. It had taken me at seven, a plumpsturdy little boy, and at ten it had left me wiry, thin, with quick, nervous movements and often dark shadows under my eyes. And it left adeep scar on my early life. For over all the adventures and over mywhole childhood loomed this last thing I had seen, hideous, disgusting. For years after that, when I saw or even thought of the harbor, I feltthe taste of foul, greasy water in my mouth and in my soul. 

So ended the first lesson. 

CHAPTER III

The next morning as I started for school, suddenly in the hallway Ithought of what my mother had told me--always when I was frightened toshut my eyes and speak to Jesus and he would be sure to make everythingright. I had not spoken to Jesus of late except to say "Holy Christ!"like Sam. But now, so sickened by Sam and his docks, my head throbbingfrom the sleepless night, on the impulse I kneeled quickly with my faceon a chair right there in the hall. But I found I was too ashamed tobegin. 

"If he would only ask me, " I thought. Why didn't he ask me, "What's thematter, little son?" or say, "Now, you must tell me and then you'll feelbetter"--as my mother always did. But Jesus did not help me out. I couldnot even feel him near me. "I will never tell anyone, " I thought. And Ifelt myself horribly alone. 

Help came from a quite different source. 

"There he is! Look!"

I heard Sue's eager whisper. Jumping quickly to my feet, I saw in thelibrary doorway Sue's dark little figure and her mocking, dancing eyesas she pointed me out to our father, her chum, whose face wore a smileof amusement. In a moment I had rushed out of doors and was runningangrily to school, furious at myself for praying, furious at Sue forspying and at my father for that smile. My terror was forgotten. No moretelling Jesus things! I retreated deep inside of myself and worked outof my troubles as best I could. 

From that day the harbor became for me a big grim place to be letalone--like my father. A place immeasurably stronger than I--like myfather--and like him harsh and indifferent, not caring whether when Ifell into it I was pulled up to safety or drawn far down into grease andslime. It made no difference. I was nothing to it one way or the other. And I was nothing to my father. 

Of course this was by no means true. As I look back now I know thatoften he must have tried to be kind, that in the jar and worry of hisown absorbing troubled life he must have often turned to me and tried tomake himself my friend. But children pass hard judgments. And if myfather was friendly at times it did no good. For he was a man--big andstrong--and I was a small boy craving his love. 

Why couldn't he really love me? Why couldn't he ask me how I felt orpull my ear and say "Hello, Puss?" He was always saying these things toSue, and caring about her very hard and trying to understand her, although she was nothing but a girl, two years younger and smaller thanI and far less interesting. And yet with her he was kind and tender, curious and smiling, he watched her with wholly different eyes. Myfather was a short, powerful man, and though he was nearly fifty yearsold his hair was black and thick and coarse. At night he would rub hisunshaven cheek on Sue's small cheek and tickle her. She would chuckleand wriggle as though it were fun. I used to watch this hungrily, andonce I awkwardly drew close and offered my cheek to be tickled. Myfather at once grew as awkward as I, and he gave me a rub so rough itstung. And this wasn't fair--I had hoped for a cuddle. Besides, he wasalways praising Sue when I knew she didn't deserve it. He called herbrave. Once when he took us duck shooting together a squall came up andhe rowed hard, and Sue sat with her eyes on his, smiling and quiteunafraid. At home that night I heard him tell my mother how wonderfullybrave she had been, and of how I, on the other hand, had gripped theboat and turned white with fear, while little Sue just sat and smiled. 

"We'll see how brave she is, " I thought, and the next day I hit her inSam's best style, fairly "knocked her nut off, " in fact, with one quickblow. "There, " I said to myself while she screamed. "I guess that showshow brave you are. I didn't scream when Sam hit me. "

He said she was quicker than I at her lessons. And this rankled thedeeper because it was true. But I would never admit it. 

"Of course she's quick, when he's always helping her. Why doesn't heever come and help me?" I would burst into tears of vexation. My fatherwas unfair!

More than that, it was he and his dock and his warehouse, in the yearsthat followed my thrills with Sam, that stripped all these thrills away. A great ship with her spreading, booming white sails might move up theriver from heathen lands as wonderful and strange as you please. But themoment she reached my father's dock she became a dirty, spotted thing, just a common every-day part of his business. 

He himself was nothing but business. His business was with ships and thesea, and yet he had never once in his life taken a long sea voyage. "Whydoesn't he? Why does he like only tiresome things?" I argued secretly tomyself. "Why does he always come ashore?" He always did. In my memoriesof ships sailing I see him always there on deck talking to the captain, scowling, wrinkling his eyes over the smoke of his cigar, but alwayscoming down the gang-plank at the end, unconcernedly turning his back onall the excitement and going back to his warehouse. 

He could get excited about ships, but only in the queerest way that hadsomething to do with his business. Late one night from my bed I heardhis voice downstairs, cutting and snarling through other voices. I gotout of bed and stole downstairs and along the half-lit hall to thelibrary door, and there from behind the curtain I watched what was goingon inside. The library was full of men, grave, courteous-lookinggentlemen, some of them angry, some merely amused. My father was leaningover his table talking of ships, of mysterious things that he said mustbe done with battleships and tariffs. 

"And mark me, gentlemen, " he cried. "If we don't do these things in timeAmerican sails will be swept from the seas!"

Listening, I got a picture of an immense broom reaching out of theclouds and sweeping American ships off the ocean. But I could makenothing of this at the time. I only watched his face and eyes and hisfist that came down with a crash on the table. And I was afraid of myfather. 

When ships lay at his dock the captains often came up to dinner. Buteven these marvelous creatures lost in my father's presence all that Samhad given them in my eyes. They did not like my mother, they ate inuneasy silence, or spoke gruffly of their dull affairs. Once or twice Iheard talk of mutinies, of sailors shot down or put in irons, but all ina matter-of-fact sort of way. Mere grunts came from my father. Steadilydrearier grew the ocean, flatter all the heathen lands. 

One stout, red-faced captain, jovial even in spite of my mother, wouldannoy me frightfully by joking about my going to sea. He was alwaysasking me when I meant to run away and be "a bloody pirate. " He took itfor granted I liked the sea, was thrilled by the sea, when the truth ofit was that I hated the sea! It was business now, only business!

My father's warehouse, too, lost its mystery as I grew older. Forexploring into its darkness I found that of course it did have wallslike any common building. The things in it, too, lost their wonder. Itwas as though my father had packed all the rich and romantic Far Eastinto common barrels and crates and then nailed down the covers. And hehimself became for me as common as his warehouse. For in his case, too, I could see the walls. 

"I know you now, " I thought to myself. He could sit through suppernight after night and not utter a word in his gloom. But the mystery inhim was gone. Business, nothing but business. A man and a place to belet alone. 

 * * * * *

But it was my mother more than anyone else who drew me away from theharbor. All through those early years she was the one who never changed, the strong sure friend I could always come back to. My mother was assafe as our house. 

She was a small, slender woman grown bodily stronger year by year by thesheer force of her spirit. I remember her smoothly parted hair, brownbut showing gray at forty, the strong, lined face and the kindly eyeswhich I saw so often lighted by that loving smile of hers for me. If myfather didn't care for me, I was always sure she did. I could feel heralways watching, trying to understand what I was thinking and feeling. As when I was very small she toned down the stories she read, so she didin everything else for me, even in her religion. Though she was a strongchurch woman, I heard little from her of the terrors of hell. But Iheard much of heaven and more still of a heaven on earth. "Thy will bedone on earth as it is in heaven. " I can never forget how she spokethose words as I knelt and repeated them after her--not so much in thetone of a prayer to a higher being as in one of quiet resolve toherself. To do her share, through church and hospital and charity workand the bringing up of her children, her share in the establishment of aheaven upon the earth, this was her religion. 

And this heaven on earth of my mother's was made up of all that was"fine" in humanity past and present. "Fine, fine!" she would say of somekind deed, of some new plan for bettering life, or of some book she wasreading, some music she had heard, or of a photograph of some greatpainting over in Europe. All her life she had wanted to go abroad. 

My mother was one of those first American women who went to college, andone of that army sent out from college as school teachers all over theland. She had taught school in frontier hamlets far out West, homesickshe had looked back on the old college town in New England, and thoseten years of her life out West had been bare and hard, an exile. At lastshe had secured a position in an expensive girls' school in New York, and from there a few years later she had married my father. I think theyhad been happy at first, I think that his work with the ships had seemedto her a gateway leading out to Europe, to all the very "finest" things. But later, as he set his whole mind upon his warehouse worries, upon hisfight for Yankee ships, a navy, subsidies, tariffs, and shut out allthought of travel, culture, friends, all but the bare, ugly business oflife--my mother had rebelled against this, had come to hate his harbor, and had determinedly set herself to help me get what she had missed. 

I don't mean that she babied me. She was too good a teacher for that. Imean she steered me through hard work away from what she saw in theharbor up toward what she felt was fine. She began when I was verylittle giving me daily lessons at home in the brief time she had tospare from her house and charity work. She made me study and she studiedme. My mother, sooner or later, seemed to find out all I did or felt. 

Often I would hold stubbornly back. While I was going with Sam to thedocks I never once gave her a hint of my rovings. It was not until twoyears after that drunken woman disaster that I suddenly told my motherabout it. I remember then she did not chide. Instead she caught thechance to draw out of me all I had learned from the harbor. I talked toher long that night, but she said little in reply. I can vividlyremember, though, how she came to me a few days later and placed a "bookfor young men" in my hands. 

"You are only twelve, " she said. "It's a pity. But after what you haveseen, my son, it is better that you know. "

She did this twenty years ago. It was far in advance of what mostparents did then or are doing even now for their children. And it threwa flood of light into the darkest place in my mind, swept away endlessforebodings, secret broodings over what until then had seemed to me theugliest, the dirtiest, the most frightening thing I had found in life. 

"When you meet anything ugly or bad, " she told me, "I don't want you toturn away at once, I want you to face it and see what it is. Understandit and then leave it, and then it won't follow you in the dark. "

"Keep clean, " she said. And understanding me as she did, I think sheadded to herself, "And I must keep you quiet. " She once told me shehoped that when I grew up I might become a professor in one of thosecollege towns she loved, where I might work all my life in peace. 

Although she never said anything to me against the harbor, I knew thatmy mother put all the ugliest things in life down there. And the thingsthat were fine were all up here. 

"I always like the front door of a house, " she used to say, "to be wideand low with only a step or two leading up. I like it to lookhospitable, as though always waiting for friends to come in. "

Our front door was like that, and the neighborhood it waited for was oneof the quietest, the cleanest and the finest, according to her view, ofany in the country. The narrow little street had wide, leisurelysidewalks and old-fashioned houses on either side, a few of red brick, but more of brown stone with spotless white-sashed windows which weretall and narrow and rounded at the top. There were no trees, but therewere many smooth, orderly vines. Almost all the houses had wide, inviting doorways like ours, but the people they invited in were onlythose who lived quietly here, shutting out New York and all the tootsand rumblings of the ships and warehouses and docks below, of which theythemselves were the owners. 

These people in their leisurely way talked of literature and music, ofsculpture and painting and travel abroad, as their fathers and evengrandfathers had done--in times when the rest of the country, like onecolossal harbor, changing, heaving, seething, had had time for only thecrudest things, for railroads, mining camps, belching mills, vast herdsof cattle and droves of sheep, for the frontier towns my mother hadloathed, for a Civil War, for a Tweed Ring, for the Knights of Labor, aHaymarket riot, for the astounding growth of cities, slums, corporationsand trusts, in this deep turbulent onward rush, this peopling of acontinent. 

And because my father, crude and self-made and come out of the West, wasof this present country, he was an intruder politely avoided by thesepeople of the past. The men would come sometimes at night, but they cameonly on business. They went straight through to the library, whence Icould hear my father's voice, loud, impatient, angry, talking of whatmust be done soon, or Germany and England would drive the American flagfrom the ocean and make us beggars on the seas, humbly asking the shipsof our rivals to give us a share in the trade of the world. To suchdisturbing meetings these grave and courteous gentlemen came less andless as the years went by. 

And so that hospitable front door of ours waited long for neighbors. 

CHAPTER IV

But if my father was an intruder, a disturber of the peace of thesecontented gentlemen, my mother was more and more liked by their wives. As time wore on they came to our house in the afternoons, upon hospitaland church affairs. And first in the church and then in a private schoolnear by I grew to be friends with their children. 

Across the street from us at the corner there stood a huge, squarebrownstone house with a garden and a wide yard around it. Two boys and alittle girl lived here, and about them our small circle centered. Herewe played hockey in winter, part of the yard being flooded for our use;and in Spring and Autumn, ball, tag, I spy, prisoner's base and othergames. They were all well enough as far as they went, but all were sovery young and tame compared to my former adventures with Sam. Adventures, that was the difference. These were only games. 

I felt poor beside these boys, in this ample yard by their grandfather'shouse. I often saw his great carriage roll out of the stable behind theyard. "Coach, " they called it. It had rich silver trimmings and a redthing called a "crest, " and a footman and coachman in top boots. Insidethe house was a butler who was still more imposing, and a lofty roomwith spacious windows called the picture gallery. But by far the mostawesome of all was the white-headed grandfather of these boys, who hadbeen to Europe twenty-eight times and could read and speak "everylanguage on earth, " as I was told in whispers while we peeped in throughhis library door. There he sat with all his books, a man so rich henever even went to his office, a man who had owned not only warehousesbut hundreds of ships and had sent them to every land in the world!While, as for me, my grandfather was not even alive. I felt poor andsmall, and I did not like it. 

Besides, these unadventurous boys all put me down as "a queer kid. " Iwas middling good at most of their games and would get sudden spurtswhen I would become almost a leader. But at other times, often right inthe middle of a game, I would suddenly forget where I was and wouldthink of Sam, of the cannibals that I had seen, of the man who hadjumped from the Great Bridge, or of that drunken woman. They would catchme at it and call me queer. And I would grow hot and feel ashamed. 

On the other hand, poor and queer as I felt at times, at others I wouldswell with my wisdom and importance. For what did they know, theserespectable boys, about the docks and the gangs of "Micks" deep downthere below us all as we played about in our nice little gardens. Whenthey called me queer, sometimes I would retort with dark hints, allgames would stop, they would gather close, and then I would tell theseintense eager boys the things I had learned from the harbor. And I hadthe more pleasure in the telling from the feeling of relief that now Iwas safe away from it all. 

"That's the real thing, that is, " I would declare impressively. But howgood it felt to me to be free of such reality. 

 * * * * *

At such times we made "the Chips" stay over on their side of the yard. "The Chips" were three small admiring girls. One was my young sisterSue, who was then about nine years old, long-legged, skinny and quick asa flash, her black hair always flying. The second, a plump freckledgirl, was the younger sister of the boys who lived here. And the thirdwas a quiet little thing who lived around the corner. We called them"Chips" to annoy them. We got the term from the stout coachman in thebarn who used it with a fine sweeping contempt that included all hislady friends. We ourselves had the most profound contempt for thesegirls who kept poking into our games. At times we would stop everythingand take the utmost pains to explain to them that they were nothingwhatever but girls. And this would make Sue furious. She would screw upher snapping black eyes and viciously stick out her tongue and stamp herfoot and say "darn!" to show she could swear like a regular kid. Andstill they hung around us. 

But as time wore on we grew more indulgent, we included them more andmore. And this was largely due to me. For I took a vague curiousinterest in the one who lived around the corner. 

Her name was Eleanore Dillon and her age was eight, and she hadattractions that slowly grew. To begin with, as I became graduallyaware, she was much the prettiest of the three. She had light curly hairtied up in red ribbons, always _fresh_ red ribbons. Everything about herwas always fresh and clean. She had the most serious blue eyes, which attimes would grow intent on what a tall chap of twelve like myselfcondescended to tell her, and at other times wondrously confiding. 

Eleanore first attracted me by making me a hero. It was a warm Mayafternoon and she was sitting on the grass with her doll and her twocompanions. Sue had stolen some matches and was using them asJackstraws. Suddenly I heard a scream, then I saw Sue racing like madtoward the garden hose, and I saw that the white skirt of Eleanore'sdress had caught fire. As yet there was only a little flame. She wassitting still motionless on the grass, hugging her doll, with scaredround eyes. I got to her first and with my cap I beat out the flame. Iwas suddenly panting, my hands were cold. But a few moments later, whenSue and two of the boys came tugging the hose, it as suddenly flashedupon me that I had done a heroic thing. 

"Get out!" I shouted scornfully, as they started to play the hose onher. "Can't you see the whole fire is out?"

And then while the plump freckled girl came screeching out of thekitchen with half the servants behind her, and presently these servantsall called me "a little heero"--the one whom I had rescued looked up atme very gratefully and said, "Thank you, Boy, for not letting them squirt water on my dolly's cleandress. "

"Aw, what do I care for a doll?" I retorted ungraciously. 

But I liked her from that day. She was not at all like Sue. She wasquiet and knew her place. She knew that she was only a girl, howthoroughly well she knew it. And yet, although so feminine, sodeliberate and sedate, she had "a pile of ginger" deep down inside ofher. In our games, whenever allowed to play, with a dogged resolutionshe would come pegging along in the rear, she was a sticker, she nevergave up. In winter when they flooded the yard she was the poorest skaterof all, but patiently plodding along on the ice, each time she fell downshe would pick herself up with such determination that at last with ajerk at her arm I said, "Here, Chip, come on and I'll teach you. "

She came on. I can still feel her soft determined clutch on my elbow. When I said, "That's enough, " she said, "Thank you, Boy, " and wentquietly on alone. 

After that I taught her many times. One afternoon when there was a thaw, I said, "Gee, but this ice is rotten. " And then Eleanore asked me placidly, "Do you like my pretty new shoes?"

"What's that got to do with it?" I demanded indignantly. 

"Nothing, I guess, " she said meekly. 

This girl was full of mysteries. One great point in her favor was thatshe had a mother "at death's door. " This appealed to me tremendously. It was so unusual. 

"How's your mother?" I would ask her often, just for the pleasure ofhearing her answer softly, "She's at death's door, thank you. "

She soon learned to skate much better, and I remember quite vividlystill the January afternoon when as the darkness deepened a silvery moonappeared overhead. I had not skated with her for a week, but now we'dbeen skating for nearly an hour. One by one the others went home, andthe plump girl turned at the kitchen door to call back to Eleanoretauntingly, "You'll catch it, going home so late!"

"Never mind, " said a gentle voice at my side, and round and round weskated. The moon grew steadily brighter. Still that soft steady clutchon my arm. 

"Now you'd better go home, " I said gruffly at last. 

"What time is it?" she asked me. I looked at my watch. 

"Gee! It's nearly seven o'clock!"

"What a pretty watch that is, " she said in a pleased, quiet voice, but Iwas not to be diverted. 

"Go on home, I tell you. Sit down and I'll take off your skates. " Shesighed regretfully but obeyed. 

"What'll they do to you?" I asked her when we stopped in front of herhouse. 

"They'll try to punish me, " she answered. I looked down at heranxiously. 

"Hard?" I inquired. She smiled at me. 

"What time is it now?" she asked. 

"Ten minutes after seven. "

"Then they won't punish me, " she said. "My father always comes home atseven. " And she went placidly into the house. 

"A mighty smart Chip, " I said to myself. 

I had told her a little about the docks, and one day she asked me totake her there. I promptly refused, but patiently from time to time sherepeated her request. She wanted me to take her "just for a littlewalk" down there, or she would run if I preferred. She wanted to comeout after supper into her garden, which was only the third from ours, and then she would sing and I would whistle. Then I would come around bythe street and she would meet me at her front gate. I don't know how sheever persuaded me, but she did, and the plan worked splendidly. At thegate without a word I took her hand and ran down the street. Soon wewere flying. Down to the open space we came, and around across therailroad tracks. In and out among grimy freight cars we sped. I wouldnot stop. 

"Christ!" I thought in terror. "Suppose Sam and the gang come aroundthis way!" I had not seen them now for years. What might not they do toher?

But she made me stop by my father's dock. She was gasping and her facewas red, but with her hand like a little vise on mine she stood therestaring at the ship. 

"Where are the heathen?" she asked at last, in a queer choking voice. 

"There. " I pointed to a small brown man with a white skull-cap on hishead. "There's one. See him? Now come home!"

"Wait a minute, please, " she begged very softly. A moment longer shestared at him. "All right, now we'll go, " she said. 

When I got her safe inside my gate I was in a cold sweat. Thisadventure, to my surprise, had been one of the most thrilling of all. And who'd have thought _her_ an adventurer?

Her mother died that summer while we were up in the mountains, and whenwe came back we found the house empty. Her father had taken her outWest. 

I remember being distinctly relieved when I heard that she had goneaway. For now there was something uncanny about her. It was one thing tohave a mother "at death's door. " That had been quite exciting. But tohave one dead! There was something too awful about it. I would not haveknown what to say to the girl. And, besides, the thought suddenlyentered my mind--suppose my own mother were to die!

 * * * * *

We had been splendid chums, my mother and I, that long delightful summerup in the White Mountains. The mountains, we had decided together, wereour favorite place to live in. "I will lift up mine eyes unto thehills, " was the part of the Bible which she liked best. She loved thesehills for their quiet, I loved them for the exciting adventures I hadwith Sue and "Stouty, " the son of the farmer with whom we stayed. Butthese adventures were of a kind that my mother warmly approved of forme. They were not like those on the harbor. 

An adventure to climb with Stouty and Sue up through the resinousbranches of an enormous pine on the mountainside to the hawk's nest inthe bare top branches, snatch the eggs and smash them, while Stouty witha big thick stick would beat off the mother hawk. An adventure toclamber half the day up a bouldery path through firs and birches, looking into black caves, peeping over steep cliffs, and at lastreaching the wind-swept summit to look off through miles of emptiness. An adventure, coming home from a picnic as evening was falling, to sitsnug in that creaking capacious wagon which belonged to Stouty's father, and to watch the lights and shadows that darted in and out of the pinesas the lantern swung beneath our wheels. 

But even up here in the mountains the harbor reached with its coldembrace. For at night it was an adventure hurriedly to undress and burymyself in the covers in time to hear the first low rumble of "the nightfreight" that went by some five miles distant. It made me think of thetrains on the docks, whose voices I had heard at night, and of thethings I had done with Sam. I would hear the mountain engine comepanting impatiently up the grade. As it reached the top I would risefrom my bed and soar off into space, in one swift rushing flight throughthe darkness I would be there in the nick of time, I would swing on to afreight car in the way Sam had shown me, climb to the top and crouchingthere I would watch the dark roadway open ahead through the silentforest. Lower would sink the voice of the engine until it became a faintconfused mutter. And the rest was dreamland. 

This was one of those secret games I never told my mother about--until, to my own surprise, in one of those long talks at night when she seemeddrawing me to her right out through my eyes, I blurted this out. Mymother wanted to know all about it. Did my hands get cold? Yes, colderand colder, as listening here in bed I heard the first muttering of thetrain and knew that in a few moments more I would take that five-mileflight, right through the window and over the trees to the distanttrack, to be there just ahead of the on-puffing engine. My voicequivered excitedly as I spoke. 

"I see--I see, " she said soothingly. "And when you are riding on top ofa car--aren't you ever frightened?"

"No--because all the time I know that I am back there at home in my bed. I can see myself back there behind me. "

"Do you fall asleep in bed--or are you still on the top of the car thelast thing you can remember?"

"Most always on the top of the car. "

"And when you sleep--do you always dream?"

"Yes--that's the finest part of it. "

"Do you ever dream of Sam?"

"Yes. "

"And all those things you did on the harbor?"

"Yes--all. "

For some moments she sat by my bedside quietly stroking one of my hands. 

"Billy. "

"Yes, mother. " I was growing impatient, I wished she would go, for nowit was nearly time for the train. 

"Have you ever played other games like that? I mean where you leaveyourself and look back--and see your own body behind you. "

"Yes--in bed in Brooklyn when I was quite little. "

"Where did you go from your bed?"

"I went to the end of the garden. I heard drunken sailors and dockersshouting in that vile saloon below. " This was not true. What I hadreally done was to lie in bed and whisper, "_Suppose_ I were outthere"--which is very different. I was too young then to have learnedthe real trick. But now I was so proud of it that I honestly thought Ihad always known how. "It was a game I had with the harbor, " I said. 

"With the harbor. " I felt her hand slowly tighten on mine. Then all atonce as we heard the first low grumble of the freight train coming, mymother's hold grew tighter and tighter. "Open your eyes. " I opened themquickly, for her voice was sharp and stern. She held me until the soundwas gone. 

"Do you hear it any longer?" she asked quietly at last. 

"No, " I whispered. My breath still came fast. 

"Neither do I. " There was another silence. "Let's go and sit by thewindow, " she said. 

And there she talked to me of the stars. How great they were and howvery quiet. She said that the greatest men in the world were almostalways quiet like that. They never let their hands get cold. 

Often after that in the evenings just before I went to bed we had thesetalks about the stars. And not only in the mountains. On sparklingfrosty winter nights we watched them over the harbor. And the things shesaid about them were so utterly absorbing that I would never think tolook down, would barely hear the toots and the puffings and grinding ofwheels from that infernal region below. For always when she spoke ofthe stars my mother spoke of great men too, the men who had done the"finest" things--a few in the clash and jar of life like Washington andLincoln, but most of them more quietly, by preaching, writing, painting, composing, sermons, books, pictures and music so "fine" that all thebest people on earth had known about them and loved them. 

As I grew older she read to me more and more about these men. Andsometimes I would feel deeply content as though I had found what Iwanted. But more often I would feel myself swell up big inside of me, restless, worrying, groping for something. I didn't know what I wantedthen, but I do know now as I look back, and I think there are thousandsof children like me, the kind who are called "queer kids" by theirplaymates, who are all groping for much the same thing. 

"Where is the Golden Age to-day?" they are asking. "We hear of all thisfrom our mothers. We hear of brave knights and warriors, of God andChrist as they walked around on earth like regular people, of saints andpreachers, writers and painters. But where are the great men living now?Not in our house nor on our street, nor in school nor in our church onthe corner. There is nothing there that thrills us. Why isn't there?What is the matter? We are no longer babies, we are becoming big boysand girls. What will we do when we are grown up? Has everything finealready been done? Is there no chance for us to be great and to dothem?"

It was to questionings like these that my mother had led me up from theharbor. 

CHAPTER V

And to such questionings I believe that for many children of my kindthere is often some familiar place--a schoolroom or a commonplacestreet, or a dreary farm in winter, a grimy row of factories or the uglymouth of a mine--that mutely answers, "No. There are no more great men for you, nor any fine things left to bedone. There is nothing else left in the world but me. And you'd betterstop trying to find it. "

In my case this message came from the harbor, that one part of themodern world which looked up at me steadily day after day. Vaguelystruggle as I would to build up fine things in the present from all thatmy mother brought out of the past, the harbor would not let me. For whatI clothed it soon stripped naked, what I built it soon tore down. 

"When you were little, " it seemed to say, "for you I was filled withthrilling idols--cannibals and condors, Sam, strange wonder-ships andsailors adventuring to heathen lands. But then I dragged these idolsdown and made you see me as I am. And as I showed myself to you, so I'llshow up all other wonderful places or men that your mother would haveyou believe in. "

It did this, as I remember it, in the easiest most trivial ways, likesome huge beast that flicks off a fly and then lumbers unconcernedly on. 

My mother by years of patient work had built up my religion, filling itwith the grand figures of God and Christ and his followers down to thepresent time, ending with Henry Ward Beecher. When this man died I feltawe at her silent grief. All at once the idea popped into my head that Itoo might become a great preacher. And still greater, I soon learned, Imight become a preacher who went far off to heathen lands, bravingcannibals and death and giving to thousands of heathen eternal happinessand life. Our church was sending out such a man. I heard him describedas a hero of God, and I thought of pictures I had seen of saints andmartyrs with soft haloes around their heads. 

But this hero of God came down to the harbor. He was to sail for Chinafrom my father's dock. He wore, I remember, a brown derby hat and alittle top coat. He was thin, with stooping shoulders, he was flusteredin the excitement of leaving, nervously laughing as he shook hands withadmiring women and talking fast in his high jerky voice. Two big dockerstrundled his trunks. I saw them grin at the little man and spit tobaccojuice his way. My father came by, shot one contemptuous glance, and thenwent on board to his business. I looked back at the hero. Off fell thehalo from his head. 

"No, " I said gloomily to myself, "I never want to be like you. " Anddrearily I looked around. What heaps and heaps of business here. What animmense gray harbor. I found no more thrills in church after that. 

And as with religion, so with love. In reading of men of the Golden AgeI came upon stories of high romance that made me strangely happy. But Isaw no love of this kind in our house. I saw my mother and father livingsharply separate lives, and I saw few kisses between them. I saw myfather absorbed in his business, with little time for my mother. And Iblamed this on the harbor. Long ago the same grim place had taught mesomething else about this many-sided passion between men and women, andone day it rose suddenly up in my mind:

I must have been about fifteen when my little friend Eleanore Dilloncame back. Soon she and Sue were intimate chums, they went to schooltogether. My mother invited her up to the mountains, and there I waswith her a good deal. She was now nearly twelve years old, and the lifein the West with her father had left her sturdy as you please. And yetsomehow she still seemed to me the same feminine little creature, and asshe told me stories of the life out West, where her father, who was anengineer, had built bridges, planned out harbors and new cities, I wouldwonder vaguely about her. What a fresh, clean little person to betalking of such places. 

She was talking to me in this way one drowsy August afternoon. We hadbeen fishing down on the river, and now on our way home up the long hotslope of the meadow we had stopped to cool ourselves in the shadow of ahaystack. It was fragrant there. Presently, from the top of the stackclose over our heads, a bird poured forth a ravishing song. And Eleanorewith a deep "Oh-h" of delight threw both her hands behind her head, sankback in the hay and lay there close beside me. Her eyes were shut andshe was smiling to herself. Then as the song of the bird bubbled on, Ifelt suddenly a little shock, a new disturbing feeling. Breathlessly Iwatched her face. The song stopped and Eleanore opened her eyes, metmine, and closed them quickly. I saw a slight tightening of herfeatures. I grew anxious at once and awkward. I wanted to get away. 

But as I made a first uneasy movement, a bit of bright color caught myeye. It was one of her red garters which had slipped down from beneathher skirt. And all at once out of my memory rose a picture of years ago, a picture from the harbor, of that fat drunken girl I had seen. She toohad worn red garters--in fact, little else! With disgusting vividness upshe came! And I jumped trembling to my feet. 

"I'm going home, " I said roughly, and left my small companion. 

I kept away from her after that. And even the following winter, whenshe came over often to our house to spend the night with Sue, I did mybest to avoid her. I avoided all Sue's friends. I did not keep girlsquite out of my thoughts, I had spells now and then when I would readabout them in novels, papers and magazines, anything I could lay handson. I would read hungrily, at times almost wistfully. But all thestories that I read, however romantic, could never quite overbalance forme that giggling woman I had seen. 

"This is what love can be these days, foul as two pigs in a sty, " saidthe harbor. 

The same thing happened again with war and the great idea of givingone's life for one's country. 

By countless eager questionings I had forced my mother to include amongour heroes men like Napoleon, Nelson and Grant, and after I gave uphopes of the church these men for a time became greatest of all. Youneeded no mother to help you here. It was the easiest thing in the worldto picture yourself leading charges or standing high up on a hill likeGrant, quietly smoking a black cigar and sending your orderlies on themad gallop out to all corners of the field. My hill grew very real tome. It had three wind-swept trees on top and I stood just in front ofthem. 

When the war with Spain broke out I was still in my 'teens, still ratherthin and by no means tall, but I made up my mind to try to enlist. Evennow I can shut my eyes and see again that long night on the docks when Iwatched two regiments embark on ships which were to sail at dawn. Withthe uniforms, the crash of bands, the flags, the cheers, the womenlaughing and crying, the harbor seemed all on my side that night. 

"This is certainly what I want!" I thought. 

But my father forbade my going. He was not only stern, he was savage. For once he came out of himself and talked. And his talk was not onlyagainst this war but against all wars. The Civil War was the worst ofall. This was the more a surprise to me because I knew that he himselfhad been with the Boys of Sixty One, I had often boasted about it. Butnow I learned he had not fought at all, he had been a mere commissaryclerk moving rations and blankets on freight trains!

"The business side of war, " he said. "And when you've seen that side ofit you know how rotten a big war is! Men in the North made millions bysending such rotten meat to the front that we had to live on the peopledown South, we had to go into their farms and plantations and plunderdefenseless women and children of all they had to eat! That's war! Andwar is filthy stinking camps where men die of fever and scurvy likeflies--and war is field hospitals so rotten in their management that yousee the wounded in long lines--packed together like bloodysardines--bleeding to death for the lack of care! When they're dead youdig big trenches and you pile 'em in like dogs! In time of war rememberpeace--and then you'll be ashamed you're there!"

For a moment I was struck dumb with surprise. What was this strange firedeep down within my father's soul that could give out such a flash?Confusedly I wondered. A sudden idea crossed my mind. 

"But if that's how you feel, " I retorted, "why are you always talkingabout the battleships we need? You want a big navy----"

"Yes, " he snapped, "to keep this country _out_ of war! If you live longenough you'll see what I mean--remember then what I'm telling you! Thiscountry needs a navy so big she can trade wherever she likes and makeother nations leave her alone! But she doesn't want war! Sixty One wasenough! Some day when you get a man's eyes in your head you'll see whatthat did to this harbor!"

I had it now, the cause of all his curious wrath! War had hurt hisharbor! How or why I did not care. Could this harbor of his standnothing heroic? Patriotism, religion, love--must they all be shovedaside to make way for his dull business?

 * * * * *

About a year later I was torn for months between two careers. Should Ibecome a great musician or a famous writer? The idea of writing came tome first, I got it from "Pendennis, " and for a time it took hold so hardI thought I was nicely settled for life. But then my mother read aloud"The Lives of Great Musicians, " and within a few weeks the piano lessonswhich for years I had thought so dull became an absorbing passion. Mymother bought me a photograph of one of the Beethoven portraits, andaround it over my desk I tacked up pictures of famous pianists that Icut from magazines. I went to concerts in New York. Better still, myteacher secured me admittance to some orchestra rehearsals, where like areal professional, all mere amateurs shut out, I could sit in the darkand listen, and shut my eyes and hold my head between my hands. I wascomposing! After a month or two of this feverish life I remember thepride with which I wrote "Opus 38" over my last composition. My rapiditywas astounding!

But one day my teacher, a kind tactful German, told me that Beethoven, when he was composing, had not always shut himself up in a room andscowled with both hands to his head, as in the portrait of him I had, but had rather gone out into the world. 

"The Master found his music, " he said, "by listening to the life closearound him. "

"He did?" I became uneasy at once, for again I felt myself being pushedtoward that eternal harbor. 

"If I were you, " my relentless monitor went on, "and desired to becomein music the great voice of my country"--I looked at him quickly but sawno smile--"I should watch the great ships down there below, I shouldlisten to them with an artist's ears. They are here from all over theworld, these ships, they are manned by men of all nations. I shouldlisten to the songs of these men. I have heard, " he added reflectively, "that some of their songs are centuries old. Beethoven gathered only thefolk songs of his country. But you in your city of all nations mightgather the folk songs of all the seas. "

I turned quickly. I had been walking the room. 

"I have heard the sailors sing, " I said, "ever since I was a little kidout there in the garden. " I scowled in the effort to search my soul, myartist's soul. "Yes, " I added triumphantly, "and sometimes it brought alump in my throat!"

"Ah! Now you are a musician!"

"I will see what I can do, " I said. 

So again I tackled the harbor. By day it was quite impossible, all tootsand blares, the most frightful discords--but at night its vulgarloudness was toned down sufficiently so that a fellow with artist's earscould really stand listening to its life, especially if I did not go tooclose but listened from my window. Here with uglier sounds subdued Icould catch low voices, snatches of song and now and then a chorus. "Thefolk songs of the Seven Seas!" How that phrase took hold of me!

I went for information to an old dock watchman who had been a sailor. 

"Songs? Why sure!" he answered. "It must be the chanties ye mean. "

"Chanties?"

"That's it. I've been told the word's French. "

"Oh! Chanter!"

"No--chanty. An' the man that sings the verses, he's called thechantyman. He sings while the crew heaves on the ropes an' they all comein on the chorus. If he's a real good chantyman he makes up new versesevery time, a kind of a yarn he spins while he sings. "

Soon after this, toward the end of a warm, windy April night, I awokeand heard them singing. I jumped up and went to my window. From the docknext to my father's, over the line of warehouse roofs, I could see theimmense white sails already slowly rising into the starlit night. Quickly I threw on some clothes and hurried down to the docks. Thewaterfront was empty, swept clean of all that I disliked. Only overheada few billowy clouds, the soft rush of the wind, a slight flush in theeast, it was almost dawn. Here and there gleamed a light, red, green oryellow, with a phantom tug or barge around it, moving over the black ofthe water. Not silence but something richer was here--the confusedmysterious murmuring, the creaking and the breathing of the sleepingport. And out of this those voices singing. 

I drew nearer slowly. Hungrily I tried to take in the details of colorand sound. And I felt suddenly such a deep delight as I had neverdreamed of. To look around and listen and gather it into me andremember. This was great, no doubt about it--it fitted into all that wasfine!

"This is really what I want to do--I'd like to learn to do it well--I'dlike to do it all my life!"

Slower, more fearfully, I drew near. Would anything happen to spoil itall? There she lay, the long white ship, laden deep, settled low in thewater. I could see the lines of little dark men heaving together at theropes. Each time they hove they sang the refrain, which, no doubt, wascenturies old, a song of the winds, the big bullies of the ocean, calling to each other as in some wild storm at sea they buffeted thetiny men who clung to the masts and spars of ships:

 "Blow the man down, bullies, Blow him right down! Hey! Hey! Blow the man down! Give us the time to blow the man down!"

But what were the verses? I could hear the plaintive tenor voice of thechantyman who sang them--now low and almost mournful, now passionate, thrilling up into the night, as though yearning for all that was hid inthe heavens. Could a man like that feel things like that? But what werethe words he was singing, this yarn he was spinning in his song?

I came around by the foot of the slip and walked rapidly up the dockshedtoward one of its wide hatchways. The singing had stopped, but as I drewclose a rough voice broke the silence:

"Sing it again, Paddy!"

I looked out. Close by on the deck, in the hard blue glare of anarc-light, were some twenty men, dirty, greasy, ragged, sweating, allgripping the ropes and waiting for Paddy, who rolled his quid in hismouth, spat twice, and then began:

 "As I went awalking down Paradise Street A pretty young maiden I chanced for to meet. "

A heave on the ropes and a deafening roar:

 "Blow the man down, bullies, Blow him right down! Hey! Hey! Blow the man down!"

Again the solo voice, plaintiff and tender:

 "By her build I took her for Dutch. She was square in the stuns'l and bluff in the bow. "

The rest was a detailed account of the night spent with the maiden. Roaron roar rose the boisterous chorus: "Blow the man down, bullies, blowhim right down!" The big patched, dirty sails went jerking and flappingup toward the stars, which from here were so faint they could barely beseen. And the ship moved out on the harbor. 

"There go the folk songs of the seas, " I thought disgustedly, lookingout on the water now showing itself grease-mottled in the first rawlight of day. 

I tried other songs with my artist's ears and found them all much likethe first, the music like the very stars, the words like the grease andscum on the water. I was about giving up my search when I met my oldfriend, the watchman. 

"Well, did ye find the chanties?" he asked. 

"Yes, " I said. "They can't be printed. " His old eyes twinkled merrily:

"Of course they can't. An' _most_ songs an' stories can't. But I'll giveye a nice little song ye can print. It's the oldest chanty of 'em all. I'll try to remember an' write it down. "

Here is the song he gave me:

ROLLING HOME

 To Australia's fair-haired maidens We will bid our last good-bye. We are going home to England, We may never more see you. 

 Rolling home, rolling home, Rolling home across the sea, Rolling home to merry England, Rolling home dear land to thee. 

 We will leave you our best wishes As we leave your rocky shores, We are going home to England, We may never see you more. Rolling home. .. . 

 Up aloft amidst her rigging Spreading out her snow white sails, Like a bird with outstretched pinions, On we speed before the gale. Rolling home. .. . 

 And the wild waves, as we leave them, Seem to murmur as they roll; There are hands and hearts to greet thee In that land to which you go. Rolling home. .. . 

 Cheer up, Jack, fond hearts await thee, And kind welcomes everywhere; There are hands and hearts to greet thee, Kind caresses from the fair. 

 Rolling home, rolling home, Rolling home across the sea, Rolling home to merry England, Rolling home dear land to thee. 

"Do they ever sing those words?" I asked suspiciously. The old Irishmanlooked steadily back. 

"Sure they sing 'em--sometimes, " he said. "It's the same thing as themother songs--only nicer put. Put to be printed, " he added. 

He found me others "put to be printed. " Soon I had quite a collection. And with the help of my German teacher I wrote down the music. 

"There are not enough for a book, " he said. "Why don't you write anarticle, tell where you found them, put them in, and send it to a paper?So you can give them to the world. "

This I at once set out to do. In the writing I found again that deepdelight I had had on the dock, just far enough off to miss the dirt, thesweat and the words of the song. I showed the article to my mother, andshe was surprised and delighted. Working together, in less than a weekwe had polished it off. I heard her read it aloud to my father, Iwatched his face, and I saw the grim smile that came over it as he askedme, "Are those the words you heard them sing?"

"Not all of them are, " I answered. And suddenly, somehow or other, Ifelt guilty, as though I had done something wrong. But angrily I shookit off. Why should I always give in to his harbor? This that I hadwritten was fine! This was Art! At last in spite of him and his docks Ihad found something great that I could do!

When the article was taken by a Sunday paper in New York and a check foreight dollars was sent me with a brief but flattering letter, my prideand hopes rose high. The eight dollars I spent on a pin for my mother, as "Pendennis" or some other boy genius had done. When the articleappeared in the paper my mother bought fifty copies and gave them out toour neighbors. There was nothing to shock such neighbors here, and theypraised me highly for what they called my "real descriptive power. "

"That boy will go far, " I heard one cultured old gentleman say. And Ilost no time in starting out. No musical career for me, down cameBeethoven from my wall, for I was now a writer. And not of merearticles, either. Inside of six months I had written a dozen shortstories, and when each of these in turn was rejected I began to plan outa five-act play. But here my mother stopped me. 

"You're trying to go too fast, " she said. "Think of it, you are barelynineteen. You must give up everything else just now and spend all yourtime getting ready for college. For if you are going to be a strongwriter, as I hope, you need to learn so many things first. And you willfind them all in college--as I did once when I was young, " she added alittle wistfully. 

CHAPTER VI

The first thing I needed in college was a good thorough dressing down. And this I got without any delay. In the first few weeks my artist'sears and eyes and soul were hazed to a frazzle. From "that boy who willgo far" I became "you damn young freshman. " I was told to make love to ahorse's hind leg, I was made to perch on a gatepost and read thetenderest passages of "Romeo and Juliet, " replacing Romeo's name by myown, and Juliet's by that of stout Mrs. Doogan, who scrubbed floors in adormitory close by. Refusals only made matters painful. Besides, I wastold by a freshman friend that I'd better fit in or I'd "queer" myself. 

This dread of "queering" myself at first did me a world of good. Dumpedin this community of over a thousand callow youths, three hundred in myclass alone and each one absorbed in getting acquainted, fitting in, making friends and a place for himself, I was soon struggling for afoothold as hard as the rest. Within a month the thing I wanted aboveall else was to shed my genius and become "a good mixer" in the crowd. 

This drew me at first from books to athletics. Though still slight ofbuild I was wiry, high-strung and quick of movement. I had a snub noseand sandy hair, and I was tough, with a hard-set jaw. And I now wentinto the football world with a passion and a patience that landed me atthe end of the season--one of the substitute quarterbacks on thefreshman team. I did not get into a single game, I was only used on the"scrub" in our practice. This made for a wholesome humility and a reallove of my college. 

The football season over, I tried for the daily paper. One of thefreshman candidates for the editorial Spring elections, I became a dailyreporter slave. Here at first I drew on my "queer" past, turning all my"descriptive powers" to use. But a fat senior editor called "Pop"inquired one day with a sneer, "For God's sake, Freshman, why theseflowers?" And the flowers forthwith dropped out of my style. At allhours, day and night, to the almost entire neglect of studies, I wentabout college digging up news--not the trivial news of the faculty'sdull, puny plans for the development of our minds, but the real vitalnews of our college life, news of the things we were here for, thethings by which a man got on, news of all the athletic teams, of theglee, mandolin and banjo clubs, of "proms, " of class and fraternityelections, mass meetings and parades. Ferreting my way into all nooksand crannies of college life, ears keen for hints and rumors, alert to"scoop" my eighteen reporter rivals--the more I learned the better Iloved. And when in the Spring I was one of the five freshman editorschosen, the conquest was complete. No more artist's soul for me. I waspart and parcel of college life. 

Together with my companions I assumed a genial tolerance toward allthose poor dry devils known to us as "profs. " I remember the weary sighsof our old college president as he monotoned through his lectures onethics to the tune of the cracking of peanuts, which an old darky soldto us at the entrance to the hall. It was a case of live and let live. He let us eat and we let him talk. With the physics prof, who was knownas "Madge the Scientist, " our indulgence went still further. We took nodisturbing peanuts there and we let him drone his hour away without aninterruption, except perhaps an occasional snore. We were so good tohim, I think, because of his sense of humor. He used to stop talking nowand then and with a quizzical hopeless smile he would look about thehall. And we would all smile broadly back, enjoying to the full withhim the droll farce of our presence there. "Go to it, Madge, " someonewould murmur. And the work of revealing the wonders of this materialuniverse would limp quietly along. In examinations Madge gave no marks, at least not to the mass of us. If he had, over half of us would havebeen dropped, so he "flunked" the worst twenty and let the rest through. 

The faculty, as a whole, appeared to me no less fatigued. Most of themlectured as though getting tired, the others as though tired out. Therewere a few lonely exceptions but they had to fight against heavy odds. 

The hottest fighter of all against this classic torpor was a tall, joyous Frenchman who gestured not only with his hands but with hiseloquent knees as well. His subject was French literature, but from thisat a moment's notice he would dart off into every phase of French life. There was nothing in life, according to him, that was not a part ofliterature. In college he was considered quite mad. 

I met him not long ago in New York. We were both hanging to straps inthe subway and we had but a moment before he got off. 

"I have read you, " he said, "in the magazines. And from what you write Ithink you can tell me. What was the trouble with me at college?" Ilooked into his black twinkling eyes. 

"Great Scott!" I said suddenly. "You were alive!"

"Merci! Au revoir, monsieur!"

What a desert of knowledge it was back there. Our placid tolerance ofthe profs included the books they gave us. The history prof gave us tenbooks of collateral reading. Each book, if we could pledge our honor asgentlemen that we had read it, counted us five in examination. On thenight before the examination I happened to enter the room of one of ourfootball giants, and found him surrounded by five freshmen, all of whomwere reading aloud. One was reading a book on Russia, another the lifeof Frederick the Great, a third was patiently droning forth Napoleon'swar on Europe, while over on the window-seat the other two were racingthrough volumes one and two of Carlyle's French Revolution. The room wasa perfect babel of sound. But the big man sat and smoked his pipe, hishonor safe and the morrow secure. In later years, whatever might happenacross the sea would find this fellow fully prepared, a wise, intelligent judge of the world, with a college education. 

"This reminds me, " he said, "of last summer--when I did Europe in threeweeks with Dad. "

The main idea in all courses was to do what you had to but no more. Oneday an English prof called upon me to define the difference between anovel and a book of science. 

"About the same difference, " I replied, "as between an artist's paintingand a mathematical drawing. "

"Bootlick, bootlick, " I heard in murmurs all over the hall. I hadanswered better than I had to. Hence I had licked the professor's boots. I did not offend in this way again. 

 * * * * *

But early in my sophomore year, when the novelty had worn away, I beganto do some thinking. Was there nothing else here? My mother and I hadhad talks at home, and she had told me plainly that unless I sent homebetter reports I could not finish my four years' course. And after all, she wasn't a fool, there was something in that idea of hers--that herein this quiet old town, so remote from the harbor and business, a fellowought to be getting "fine" things, things that would help him all hislife. 

"But look what I've got!" I told myself. "When I came here what was I? Alittle damn prig! And look at me now!"

"All right, look ahead. I'm toughened up, I've had some good thingsknocked into me and a lot of fool things knocked out of me. But that'sjust it. Are all the fine things fool things? Don't I still want towrite? Sure I do. Well, what am I going to write about? What do I knowof the big things of life? I was always hunting for what was great. I'mnever hunting for it now, and unless I get something mighty quick myfather will make me go into his business. What am I going to do with mylife?"

At first I honestly tried to "pole, " to find whether, after all, Icouldn't break through the hard dry crust of books and lectures downinto what I called "the real stuff. " But the deeper I dug the drier itgrew. Vaguely I felt that here was crust and only crust, and that forsome reason or other it was meant that this should be so, because in thefresh bubbling springs and the deep blazing fires whose presence I couldfeel below there was something irritating to profs and disturbing tothose who paid them. These profs, I thought confusedly, had about asmuch to do with life as had that little "hero of God" who had cut such apitiful figure when he came close to the harbor. And more pitiful stillwere the "polers, " the chaps who were working for high marks. Theythought of marks and little else. They thrived on crust, these fellows, cramming themselves with words and rules, with facts, dates, theoremsand figures, in order to become professors themselves and teach the samestuff to other "polers. " There was a story of one of them who stayed inhis room and crammed all through the big football game of the season, and at night when told we had won remarked blithely, "Oh, that's splendid! I think I'll go out and have a pretzel!"

God, what a life, I thought to myself! None of that for me! And so Ileft the "polers. "

But now in my restless groping around for realities in life that wouldthrill me, things that I could write about, I began trying to testthings out by talking about them with my friends. What did a fellow wantmost in life--what to do, what to get and to be? What was there reallyin business beside the making of money? In medicine, law and the otherprofessions, in art, in getting married, in this idea of God and aheaven, or in the idea I vaguely felt now filtering through the nation, that a man owed his life to his country in time of peace as in time ofwar. The harbor with rough heavy jolts had long ago started me thinkingabout questions of this kind. Now I tackled them again and tried to talkabout them. 

And at once I found I was "queering" myself. For these genial companionsof mine had laid a most decided taboo upon all topics of this kind. Theydid so because to discuss them meant to openly think and feel, and tothink or feel intensely, about anything but athletics and other thingsprescribed by the crowd, was bad form to say the least. 

Bad form to talk in any such fashion of what we were going to make ofour lives. Nobody cared to warm up on the subject. Many had nothing atall in sight and put off the whole idea as a bore. Others were alreadyfixed, they had positions waiting in law and business offices, infactories, mines, mills and banks, and they took these positions assettled and sure. 

"Why?" I would argue impatiently. "How do you know it's what you wantmost?"

"Oh, I guess it'll do as well as another. "

"But damn it all, why not have a look? We can have a big look now, we'vegot a chance to broaden out before we jump into our little jobs--to seeall the jobs and size 'em up and look at 'em as a part of the world!"

"Oh, biff. " I got little or no response. The greater part of thesedecent likable fellows could not warm up to anything big, they simplyhadn't it in them. 

"Why in hell do you want me to get all hot?" drawled one fat sluggard ofa friend. "I'll keep alive when the time comes. " And he and his kind setthe standard for all. Sometimes a chap who could warm up, who had thereal stuff in him, would "loosen up" about his life on some long trampwith me alone. But back in college his lips were sealed. It was notexactly that he was ashamed, it was simply that with his college friendssuch talk seemed utterly out of place. 

"Look out, Bill, " said one affectionately. "You'll queer yourself if youkeep on. "

The same held true of religion. An upper classman, if he felt he had to, might safely become a leader of freshmen in the Y. M. C. A. But when oneSunday evening I disturbed a peaceful pipe-smoking crowd by wonderingwhy it was that we were all so bored in chapel, there fell anembarrassing silence--until someone growled good-humoredly, "Don't biteoff more'n you can chew. " Nobody wanted to drop his religion, he simplywanted to let it alone. I remember one Sunday in chapel, in the midst ofa long sermon, how our sarcastic old president woke us up with a start. 

"I was asked, " he said, "if we had any free thinkers here. 'No, ' Ireplied. 'We have not yet advanced that far. For it takes half as muchthinking to be a free thinker as it does to believe in God. '"

And I remember the night in our sophomore club when the news came like athunderclap that one of our members had been killed pole-vaulting at atrack meet in New York. It was our habit, in our new-found manliness, toeat with our hats on, shout and sing, and speak of our food as"tapeworm, " "hemorrhage, " and the like. I remember how we sat thatnight, silent, not a word from the crowd--one starting to eat, thenseeing it wasn't the thing to do, and staring blankly like the rest. They were terrible, those stares into reality. That clutching pain ofgrief was real, so real it blotted everything out. Later some of us inmy room began to talk in low voices of what a good fellow he had been. Then some chap from the Y. M. C. A. Proposed timidly to lead us inprayer. What a glare he got from all over the room! "Damn fool, " I heardsomeone mutter. Bad form!

Politics also were tabooed. Here again there were exceptions. A stillfiery son of the South could rail about niggers, rapes and lynchings andthe need for disenfranchising the blacks. It was good fun to hear him. Moreover, a fellow who was a good speaker, and needed the money, mightstump the state for either political party, and his accounts were oftenamusing. But to sit down and talk about the trusts, graft, trade unions, strikes, or the tariff or the navy, the Philippines, "the open door, " orany other of the big questions that even then, ten years ago, werebeginning to shake the country, and that we would all be voting on soon?No. The little Bryan club was a joke. And one day when a socialistspeaker struck town the whole college turned out in parade, waving redsweaters and firing "bombs" and roaring a wordless Marseillaise! Wewanted no solemn problems here!

Finally, it was distinctly bad form to talk about sex. Not to tell"smutty stories, " they were welcomed by the average crowd. But to lookat it squarely, as I tried to do, and get some light upon what would bedoubtless the most vital part of our future lives--this simply wasn'tdone. What did women mean to us, I asked. What did prostitutes mean atpresent? What would wives mean later on? And all this talk aboutmistresses and this business of free love, and easy divorces andmarriage itself--what did they all amount to? Was love really what itwas cracked up to be, or had the novelists handed us guff? When I cameout with questions like these, the chaps called "clean" looked ratherpained; the ones who weren't, distinctly bored. 

For this whole intricate subject was kept in the cellars of our minds, cellars often large but dark. Because "sex" was wholly rotten. It hadnothing to do, apparently, with the girls who came chaperoned to the"proms, " it had to do only with certain women in a little town close by. Plenty of chaps went there at times, and now and then women from overthere would come to us on the quiet at night. But one afternoon I saw abig crowd on the front campus. It grew every moment, became a mob, shoving and surging, shouting and jeering. I climbed some steps to lookinto the center, and saw two painted terrified girls, hysterical, sobbing, swearing and shrieking. So they were shoved, a hiddenspectacle, to the station and put on the train. Nothing like that on ourfront campus! Nothing like "sex" in the front rooms of our minds. Thecrowd returned chuckling. Immoral? Hell, no. Simply bad form. 

 * * * * *

"What am I going to write about?"

"Games, " said the college. "Only games. Don't go adventuring down intolife. "

CHAPTER VII

Then I found Joe Kramer. 

He had "queered" himself at the beginning in college. I had barely knownhim. He belonged to no fraternity, and except on the athletic field hekept out of all our genial life. And this life of ours, for all itsthoughtlessness, was so rich in genuine friendships, so filled andbubbling over with the joy of being young, that we could not understandhow any decent sort of chap could deliberately keep out of it. We putJoe Kramer down as a "grouch. "

But now that I too was "queering" myself, our queerness drew ustogether, or rather, Joe's drew mine. In the ten years that have gonesince then I have never met any man who drew me harder than he did, thanhe is drawing me even still--and this often in spite of my efforts toshake him off, and later of his quite evident wish to be rid of me. ForJoe had what is so hard to find among us comfortable mortals, asincerity so real and deep that it absolutely ruled his life, that itkept him exploring into things, kept him adventuring always. 

In long tramps over the neighboring hills, on our backs in the grassstaring up at the clouds, or in winter hugging a bonfire in the shelterof a boulder, or back in college over our beer or over countless pipesin our rooms, together we adventured through books and long hungry talksdown into life--and of the paths we discovered I see even now no end. 

Joe was tall and lean, with heavy shoulders stooping slightly. He wassallow, he never took care of himself. He ate his meals at all hours ata small cheap restaurant, where he bought a bunch of meal tickets eachweek. His face was obstinate, honest, kindly, his features were as bluntas his talk. He was the first to understand what I was so vaguelylooking for, and to say, "All right, Kid, you come right along. " And ashe was farther along than I, he pulled me after him on the hunt afterwhat he called "the genuine article" in this bewildering modern life. 

His own life, to begin with, was a tie with this real modern world thathad forced itself on me long ago through the harbor. For Joe had been"up against it" hard. Though blunt and frank about most things he talkedlittle about himself, but I got his story bit by bit. "Graft" had comeinto it at the start. In a town of the Middle West his father had been aphysician with a good practice, until when Joe was eleven years old acase of smallpox was discovered. Joe's father vaccinated about a scoreof children that week. The "dope" he used was mailed to him by a drugfirm in Chicago. It was "rotten. " Over half the children weredesperately ill and seven of them died. Joe's father, his mother andboth older sisters did duty as nurses day and night. After that theyleft town, moved from town to town, that story always following, andfinally both parents died. Since then Joe had been a teamster, a clerkin a hardware store, a brakeman, a telegrapher, and last, the assistanteditor of a paper in a small town. He had scraped and slaved and studiedthroughout with the idea of coming East to college. He had come attwenty-two, beating his way on freight trains. On the top of a car onenight he had fallen asleep and been knocked on the head by a steel beamjutting down under a bridge. Then, after two weeks on a hospital bed, hehad arrived at college. 

Here he had earned a meager way by writing football and baseball newsfor a string of western papers. Here he had looked for an education, andhere "a bunch of dead ones" had handed him "news from the graveyard"instead. 

I can still see him in classroom, head cocked to one side, grimlywatching the prof. And once during a Bible course lecture I heard hisvoice blandly ironic behind me:

"Will somebody ask Mister Charley Darwin to be so good as to step thisway?"

"We've been cheated, Bill, " he told me. "We've been cheated right along. Take history, for instance, the kind of stuff we were handed in school. I got onto it first when I was fourteen. It was a rainy Saturday and mymother told me to go and clean out an old closet up in the attic. Well, I found my German grandfather's diary there, written when he was incollege in Leipsic, in 1848. The way those kids jumped into things! Theway they got themselves mixed up in the Revolution of Forty Eight! Tohear my young grandfather talk, that year was one of the biggest timesin European history. Our school history gave it five pages and thendruled on about courts and kings. 'I'll go to college, ' I made up mymind. 'College will put me next to the truth. ' So I saved my littlenickels and came. But college, " he added moodily, "ain't advanced as faras it was in my young grandfather's time. "

"Do you know who's to blame for this stuff?" he said. "It's not theprofs, I've nothing against them, all they need is to be kicked out. No, it's us, because we stand for their line of drule. If we got right up onour honkeys and howled, all of us, for a real education, we'd get it bynext Saturday night. But we don't care a damn. Why don't we? Are we allof us dubs? No we're not. Go down to the football field and see. There'sas much brains in figuring out those plays as there is in mathematics. Would we stand for coaches like our profs? But that's just it. It's thething to be alive in athletics and a dub in everything else. And becauseit's the thing, every fellow fits in. On the whole, " he addedreflectively, "I think it's this 'dear old college' feeling that's toblame for it all. "

"My God, Joe!" This was high treason!

"Sure it is, " he retorted. "It _is_ your god and the god of us all. Thisdear old college feeling. It's got us all stuck together so close thatnobody dares to be himself and buck against its standards. "

This from Joe Kramer! How often, in a football game, have I seen him onthe reporter's bench, his sallow face now all a-scowl, now beamingsatisfaction as he pounded his neighbor on the back. 

In pursuit of "a real education" we got into the habit of spendingalmost every evening in the college library, where except at examinationtimes there was nobody but a few silent "polers. "

I grew to love this place. It was so huge and shadowy, with only shadedlights here and there. It had such tempting crannies. I loved its deepquiet, so pleasantly broken now and then by a step, a whisper, the soundof a book being moved from its shelf where perhaps it had stood unreadfor years, or occasional voices passing outside or snatches of song fromthe campus. And here I thought I was finding myself. That French profhad introduced me to Voltaire, Hugo, Balzac, Maupassant and others whowere becoming my new idols. This was art, this was beauty and truth, this was getting at life in a way that thrilled. 

But now and then looking up from my book I would see Joe prowling aboutthe place, taking down a book, then shoving it back and scowling as heran his eyes along whole rows of titles. 

"This darned library shut its doors, " he would growl to himself, "justas the real dope was coming along. But there's been such a flood of itever since that some leaked in in spite of 'em. "

Joe would search and search until he found "it" on back shelves or stuckaway in corners. Angrily he would blow off the dust and then settlehimself with a sigh to read. There was always something wistful to me inthe way Joe opened each new book. But what a joy when he found"it"--Darwin, Nietzsche, Henry George, Walt Whitman, Zola, SamuelButler. What a sudden sort of glee the night he discovered Bernard Shaw!

When the library closed we adjourned for beer and a smoke, and often wewould argue long about what we had been reading. Joe had little use forthe stuff I liked. Beauty and form were nothing to him, it was "themeat" he was after. My mother's idols he laid low. 

"The first part was big, " he said one night of a recent English novel. "But the last part was the kind of thing that poor old Thackeray mighthave done. "

In an instant I was up in arms, for to my mother and me the author of"Pendennis" had been like a great lovable patron saint, a refuge fromall we abhorred in the harbor. To slight him was a sacrilege. Butreverence to Joe Kramer was a thing unknown. "Show me, " he said, inreply to my outburst, "a single thing he ever wrote that wasn'tsentimental bosh!" And we went at it hammer and tongs. 

It was so in all our talks. Nothing was too sacred. Joe always insistedon "being shown. "

He had a keen liking but little respect for the nation built by ourfathers. From his own father's tragedy, caused by graft, his own hardstruggles in the West and the Populist doctrines he had imbibed, he hadcome East with a deep conviction that "things in this country are onebig mess with the Constitution sitting on top. " And when the term"muckraker" came into use, I remember his deep satisfaction. "Now I knowmy name, " he said. 

He was equally hard on the church. How he kicked against our compulsorychapel. "Broad, isn't it, scientific, " he growled, "to yank a man out ofbed every morning, throw him into his seat in chapel and tell him, 'Here. This is what you believe. Be good now, take your little dose andthen you can go to breakfast. '"

"I'm no atheist, " he remarked. "I'm only a poor young fellah who asks, 'Say, Mister, if you _are_ up there why is it that no big scientist hasbrains enough to see you?'"

"Look here, J. K. , that isn't so!"

"Isn't it? Show me!" And we would start in. I had a deep repugnance forhis whole materialistic view. But I liked the way he jarred me. 

"What I want to do, " he said, "is to bust every hold that any creed everhad on me. I don't mean only creeds in churches, I mean creeds inpolitics, business and everywhere else. I want to get 'em all out of myeyes so I can see what's really here--because I'm so sure there's anawful lot here and an awful lot more that's coming. If I make a noiselike a knocker at times you don't want to put me down as anySchopenhauer fan. None of that pessimistic dope for little Joey Kramer. I never open a new book without hoping I'll find the real stuff I want, and I never open a paper without hoping that some more of it will beright here in the news of the day. Kid, " he ended intensely, "you cantake it from me there are going to be big doings soon in this little oldworld, big doings and great big ideas, as big as what caused the CivilWar and a damn sight more scientific. And the thing for you and me to dois to get ourselves in some kind of shape so we can shake hands with 'emwhen they arrive, and say, 'Hello, fellahs, come right in. You're justwhat we've been waiting for. '"

When Joe gave up college at the end of the junior year, he left a smallgroup of us behind. "The Ishmaelites, " we called ourselves. For thoughmost of us "couldn't quite go Joe, " we had all "queered" ourselves incollege through the influence on us he had had. 

There are thousands of Joe Kramers now in colleges scattered all overthe land. Each year their numbers grow, each year more deep their vagueconviction that somehow they've been cheated, more harsh and insistentevery year their questioning of all "news from the graveyard, " whetherit comes from old fogey professors or from parents or preachers, eminentlawyers or business men, great politicians or writers of books. Arrogantand sweeping, sparing nothing sacred--young. Ignorant, confused andgroping, almost wistful--new. They are becoming no insignificant part inthis swiftly changing national life. 

Joe Kramer was one of the pioneers. 

CHAPTER VIII

It was with an unpleasant shock of surprise that I found Joe liked theharbor. 

When I took him home for Christmas he spent half his time down there onthe docks. He explored the whole region for miles around, in a week hespoke in familiar terms of slips and bays and rivers that to me werestill nothing but names. Moreover, he liked my father. And my father, opening up by degrees, showed an unmistakable relish for Joe. 

They had long talks in the study at night, where I could hear themarguing about the decline of our shipping, the growth of our trusts andrailroads, graft and high finance and strikes, the swift piling up ofour troubles at home--and about the great chance we were losing abroad, the blind weak part we were playing in this eager ocean world whereevery nation that was alive was rushing in to get a place. As theirvoices rose loud and excited, even my young sister Sue, who was just outof high school now and doing some groping about of her own, would gointo the study to listen at times. But I kept out. For already I wastired again of all these harbor problems, I wanted to get at lifethrough Art! And I felt besides that if I entered into long talks withmy father, sooner or later he would be sure to bring up the dreadedquestion of my going into his business. And this I was firmly resolvednot to do. For my dislike of all his work, his deepening worries, hisdogged absorption in his tiresome hobby of ships, was even sharper thanbefore. 

"That dad of yours, " Joe told me, "is a mighty interesting old boy. Hehas had a big life with a big idea. "

"Has he?" said I. "Then he's lost it. "

"He hasn't! That's just the trouble. He thinks he's a comer when he's agoer--he can't see his idea is out of date. It's a pity, " he addedsadly. "When a man can spend his days and nights hating the trusts andthe railroads as he does, it's a pity he's so darned old in his views ofwhat ought to be done about it. Your father believes that if only we'dget a strong navy and a large mercantile marine----"

"Oh, cut it, J. K. , " I said pettishly. "I tell you I don't care what hebelieves! The next thing you'll be telling me is that I ought to take ajob in his warehouse!"

"You might do worse, " said Joe. 

"What?" I demanded indignantly. 

"That's just what I said. If you'd go on a paper and learn to write likea regular man I'd be tickled to death. But if all you want to be in lifeis a young Guy de Maupassant and turn out little gems for the girls, then I say you'd be a lot better off if you went into your father'swarehouse and began telling Wall Street to get off the roof!"

"Thank you, " I said stiffly. 

From that talk Joe and I began drifting apart. I never brought him homeagain, I saw less of him at college. And at the end of the college yearhe went to New York, where he found a job on a paper. 

And so all through my senior year I was left undisturbed to "queer"myself in my own sweet way, which was to slave for hours over Guy deMaupassant and other foreign authors, write stories and sketches by thescore, and with two other "Ishmaelites" plan for a year's work in Paris. The French prof was delighted and spurred us on with glowing accounts oflife in "the Quarter. " One of us wanted to be a painter. No place forthat like Paris! Another an architect--Paris! Myself a writer--Paris!For what could American writers to-day, with their sentimental littleyarns covering with a laugh or a tear all the big deep facts of life, show to compare to the unflinching powerful work of the best writersover in France? In Paris they were training men to write of life as itreally is! How that prof did drum it in. Better still, how he talked itup to my mother--the last time she came to college. 

I soon found she was on my side. If only she could bring father around. 

I still remember vividly that exciting night in June when the three ofus, back there at home, sat on the terrace and fought it out. I rememberthe beauty of the night, I mean of the night up there in the gardenunder the stars, my mother's garden and her stars, and of the hideousshowing put up by my father's harbor below. 

Of course he opposed my going abroad. His old indifference to me hadvanished, I saw he regarded me now as worth while, grown up, a businessasset worth fighting for. And my father fought. He spoke abruptly, passionately of the great chance on the docks down there. I rememberbeing surprised at his talk, at the bigness and the intensity of thishunger of his for ships. But of what he said I remembered nothing, I didnot hear, for I was eyeing my mother. 

I saw she was watching him pityingly. Why? What argument had she stillto use? I waited in increasing suspense. 

"So that's all there is to it, " I heard him end. "You might as well getit right out of your head. You're not going over to Europe to fool awayany more of your time. You're going to buckle down right here. "

"Billy, leave us alone, " said my mother. 

What in the name of all the miracles did she do to him that night--mymother so frail (she had grown so of late), my father so strong? Thenext day she told me he had consented. 

I saw little of him in the next two weeks. He left me alone with herevery evening. But when I watched him he looked changed--beaten andbroken, older. In spite of myself I pitied him now, and a confuseduneasiness, almost remorse, came over me at the way I had opposed him. "What's come over Dad?" I wondered. Once I saw him look at my mother, and his look was frightened, crushed. What was it she had told him?

Those evenings I read "Pendennis" aloud for the third time to my mother. It had been our favorite book, and I took anxious pains to show her howI loved it still. But once chancing to look quickly up, I caught mymother watching me with a hungriness and an utter despair such as I'dnever seen before. It struck me cold, I looked away--and suddenly Irealized what a selfish little beast I was, beside this woman who lovedme so and whom I was now leaving. My throat contracted sharply. But whenI looked back the look was gone, and in its place was a quiet smile. 

"Oh, my boy, you must do fine work, " she said. "I want it so much morethan anything else in my whole life. In my whole life, " she repeated. Icame over to her chair, bent over her and kissed her hard. 

"I'm sorry I'm going! I'm sorry!" I whispered. "But mammy! It's only fora year!"

Why did that make her cling to me so? If only she had told me. 

But what young egotists we sons are. It was only a few days later thatwith my two college chums, from the deck of an ocean liner, I saidgood-by to the harbor. 

"Thank God I'm through with you at last. "

CHAPTER IX

I was in Paris for two years. 

In those first weeks of deep delight I called it, "The Beautiful City ofGrays. " For this town was certainly mellowed down. No jar of an uglypresent here, no loud disturbing harbor. But on the other hand, nodullness of a fossilized past. What college had been supposed to do thiscity did, it took the past and made it alive, richly, thrillingly alive, and wove it in with the present. In the first Sorbonne lectures, evenwith my meager French, I felt this at once, I wanted to feel it. Theseprofs were brilliant, sparkling, gay. They talked as though Rousseau andVoltaire, Hugo, Balzac and Flaubert, Maupassant and all the rest werestill vital dazzling news to the world, because these men were stillmolding the world. And from here exploring out over the town, I wassmilingly greeted everywhere by such affable gracious old places, thatseemed to say:

"We've been written about for a thousand years, and now you also wish towrite. How charming of you. Please sit down. Garçon, un bock. "

And I sat down. Scenes from the books of my great idols rose aroundevery corner, or if they didn't I made them rise. There was pride in theprocess. To go to the Place de la République, take a seat before somecheap, jolly café, squint out at the Place with an artist's eye, reconstruct the Bastille, the Great Revolution, dream back of that toRousseau and Voltaire and the way they shook the world by theirwritings--and then wake up and find that I had been at it for threemortal hours! What a chap I was for dreams. I must be quite a genius. There were hours with Hugo in Notre Dame in one of its most shadowycorners; with Zola on top of a 'bus at night as it lumbered up into theBelleville slums; with Balzac in an old garden I found; with Guy deMaupassant everywhere, in the gay hum and lights of those endless cafés, from bridges at sunset over the Seine, or far up the long rich dusk ofthe Champs Élysées, lights twinkling out, and _his_ women laughing, chattering by. 

Nothing left in this rich old world but the harbor? Nothing beautiful, fine or great for an eager, hungry, happy young man? I could laugh! Iknew now that the harbor had lied! For into this radiant city not onlythe past but the whole present of the earth appeared to me to be pouringin. Painters, sculptors, writers and builders were here from allnations, with even some Hindus and Japs thrown in, young, bringing alltheir dreams and ambitions, their gaiety, their vigor and zest. 

"Young men are lucky. They will see great things. "

Voltaire had said that about thirty years before the French Revolution. It had been true then, true ever since, it was true to-day andhere--though _our_ great things I felt very sure were not to come inviolence--the world had gone beyond all that. No, these immensesurprises that were lurking just before us, these astounding miraclesthat were to rise before our eyes, would come in the unfolding of thepowers in men's minds, working free and ranging wide, with a deepresistless onward rush--in the stirring times of peace!

And we were not only to see great things but we were all to do them!That was the very keynote of the place. Here a fellow could certainlywrite if only he had it in him. Impatiently I slaved at my French. Fivehours sleep was plenty. 

In the small apartment we had taken just on the edge of the LuxembourgGardens, on the nights when we were working at home, one of us at hiseasel, another at his drafting board, myself at my desk, we would knockoff at about eleven o'clock and come down for beer and a long smoke infront of the café below. A homely little place it was, with two rows ofsmall iron tables in front, and at one of these we would seat ourselves. Behind us in the window was a long glass tank of gold fish, into whichfrom time to time a huge cat would reach an omnivorous paw. Often fromwithin the café we would hear Russian folk songs played on balalaikas bya group of Russian students there. And between the songs a low hubbubrose, in French and many other tongues, for here were French andGermans, English and Bohemians, Russians and Italians, all gathered herewhile they were young. 

How serene the old city seemed those nights. The street outside wasquiet. The motor 'bus, that pest of Paris, had not yet appeared. Only anoccasional cab would come tinkling on its way. Our street was absurdlyshort. At one end was a gay cluster of lights from the crowded cafés ofthe "Boul' Mich', " at the other were the low lighted arches at the backof the Odéon, from which when the play was over fluffy feminine figureswould emerge from the stage entrance; we would hear their low musicalvoices as they came merrily by us in cabs. Other figures would pass. Across the street before us rose the trees and the lofty iron fence ofthe Gardens, with a rich gloom of shrubs behind, and against thisbackground figures in groups and alone and in couples would comestrolling by with their happiness or hurrying eagerly toward it. Or towhat else were they hurrying? From what were they coming so slowly away?

These strangers in this setting thrilled me. Comedy, tragedy, character, plot--there seemed nothing in life but the writing of tales--watching, listening, dreaming, finding, then becoming deeply excited, feeling themgrow inside of you, planning them out and writing them off, then workingthem over and over and over, little by little building them up. What arich absorbing life for a fellow, and for me it still lay all ahead. Ihad used but twenty-two years of my life, there were fifty left to writein, and what couldn't you write in fifty years!

Often, sitting here at night, I would get an idea and begin to work, andI would keep on until at last the enormous old woman who kept thecafé--we called her "The Blessed Damozel"--would come lumbering out andgood humoredly growl, "Couches-toi donc. Une heure vient de sonner. "

 * * * * *

There came a brief interruption. Into our street's procession oneevening, over its round cobblestones on a bicycle that wearily wobbled, there came a lean dusty figure with something distinctly familiar in thestoop of the big shoulders. 

"Hello, boys, " said a deep gruff voice. 

"J. K. !"

It was. Joe Kramer arriving in Paris at midnight on a punctured tire, and cursing the cobblestone pavements over which he had hunted us out. 

A hot supper, a bottle of wine, a genial beam on all three of us, andJoe told his story. After leaving college, from New York he had gone toKansas City, and by the "livest paper" there he had been sent abroadwith a bike to do a series of "Sunday specials. " He had come oversteerage and written an exposé of his passage. He had two weeks forParis and then was off to Berlin and Vienna. 

"I'm just breaking ground this time, boys, " he said. "I want to get thehang of the countries and a start in their infernal languages. "

The next day he began to break ground in our city. Early the nextmorning I found Joe propped up in bed scowling into _Le Matin_ as hetried to butt his way through the language into the news events of theday. What I tried to tell him of the Paris I had found made no appealwhatever. 

"All right, Kid, " he said indulgently. "If I had a dozen lifetimes Imight be a poet. But I haven't, so I'll just be a reporter. "

And he and his bike plunged into the town. He found its "newspaper row"that day and a Frenchman to whom he had a letter. With this man Joe wentto the Bourse and that night to the Chamber of Deputies. He got "Sundayspecials" out of them both, and then went on to the Bourse de Travail. And in the few spare moments he had, Joe told us of the things he hadseen. Rumors of war and high finance, trade unions, strikes and sabotageburst on my startled artist's ears. It made me think of the harbor!_This_ was not my Paris!

"It is, " said J. K. Stoutly. "There's no place like a newspaper officeto put you right next to the heart of a town. "

He would not hear to our seeing him off. I remember him that last nightafter supper strapping his bag onto his bike and starting off down ourquiet old street on his way to the station. 

"To-morrow, " he said, "I'll stop off in Leipsic. I want to have a lookat the college that stirred my young grandfather up for life. I've gothis diary with me. "

Again, in spite of the gruffness, I felt that wistful quality in him. J. K. Was hunting for something too. 

CHAPTER X

But what a relief to see him go, to forget his loud disturbing Paris andagain drink deep of mine, the city of great writers. 

"I'll never really know them, " I thought, "until I can not only talk butthink and feel in their language. "

So I drudged for hours a day in my room. I inflicted my French on mychums at meals, on defenseless drivers of 'buses who could not rise andgo away, and on the Blessed Damozel, who said:

"Va donc, cherches-toi une fille. C'est la seule manière d'apprendre leFrançais. "

I was vaguely thrilled by this idea, the more because so far in my lifeI had had no experience of the kind. On the streets, in cabs, and incafés I began watching women with different eyes, more eagerly selectingeyes that picked out of the throng the one _her_ of the moment so thatfor me she was quite alone. She was alone for a thousand reasons, different ones in every case. She was of many ages, rich and poor, nowgorgeous and now simply dressed, now a ravishing creature that took yourbreath and again just funny and very French with a saucy way of wearingher clothes. Her fascinations were always new. I watched her twinklingearrings, her trick of using her lips when she smiled, her hands, hersilk clad ankles, her swelling young bust, the small coquettish hat shewore, her shoulders, their expressive shrugs, her quick vivaciousmovements--and I watched her eyes. Her eyes would meet mine now andthen, often with only a challenging smile but again in an intimatedazzling way that gave me a deep swift shock of delight and left meconfused and excited. 

"In a little while, " I thought. I decided to wait till I knew moreFrench. "She'll be strange enough, God knows, " I thought halfapprehensively, "even when I can talk her language. " And with a feelingalmost of relief I would plunge back into my work and forget her. For meshe was only an incident in this teeming radiant life. 

I must learn French! I strained my ears at lectures, at plays from thetop gallery, I hired a tutor to hurry it on. Years later in New York Imet a Russian revolutionist come to raise money for his cause. "Threeweeks have I been in this country, " he said in utter exasperation. "Andnot yet do I speak fluently the English!" That was how I felt aboutFrench. What a delight to begin to feel easy, to catch the fineshadings, the music and color of words and of phrases. How much morepliant and smooth and brilliant than English. How remote from theharbor. 

I could study my models now, not only their construction but their smallcharacter touches as well. De Maupassant was still first for me. Sosimple and sure, with so few strokes but each stroke counting to thefull, one suggestive sentence making you imagine the rest, everythingelse in the world shut out, your mind gripped suddenly and held, focussed on this man and this woman who a moment before had been nothingto you but were now more real than life itself. Especially this woman, what an absorbing creature he made her--and the big human ideas heinjected into these petites histoires. 

I wrote short stories by the score. Each one had a perfectly huge ideabut each seemed worse than the one before. I took to myself the adviceof Flaubert, and from a table before a café I would watch the peoplearound me and jot down the minutest details, I filled whole pages withmy strokes. But which to choose to make this person or this scene likeno other in the world? There came the rub. How had De Maupassant doneit? The answer came to me one night:

"Not only by watching people. He talked to 'em, lived with 'em, knewtheir lives!"

The very thing my music teacher had said about Beethoven. How uneasy Ihad been then, how absurdly young and priggish then in the gingerly wayI had gone at the harbor. Thank heaven there was no harbor here. I couldenter this life with a wholehearted zest. 

I began with one of my roommates. He was to be an architect. Ahard-working little chap, his days were filled with sharp suspense. TheBeaux Arts entrance examinations were close ahead. If he did not pass, he told me, his parents in Ohio were too poor to give him anotherchance. 

"If I have to go back to Ohio now, " he said in that soft reflectivevoice of his, "I'll put up cowsheds--later on, barns--and maybe when I'mfifty, a moving picture theater. If I stay here and go back a Beaux Artsman, I can go to New York or Chicago and get right into the center ofthe big things being done. "

With a wet towel bound around his head he used to sit at his work halfthe night. I watched the lines tighten about his thin lips and betweenhis gray eyes, grew to know the long weariness in them over someproblem, the sudden grim joy when the problem worked out. One day hecame home early. 

"Queer, " he said simply. "I can see one side of your face, one side ofyour body, one leg and one arm. But the other side don't seem to bethere. " I looked up at him a moment. 

"Let's go out for a walk, " I suggested. We went for a stroll in theGardens. And here I was surprised and just a bit ashamed to find thatwhile I had a real sympathy for him I had just as real curiosity. Forhere was a living illustration of the horror of going blind. I could seehis jaws set like a vise, I could hear his low voice talking steadily onas though to keep from thinking. What was he thinking? What was hefeeling? We talked of the most commonplace things. But moment by moment, through his voice and his grip on my arm, those sudden waves now ofsickening fear, now of keen suspense, now of angry groping around for afoothold, seemed pouring from him right into me, became part ofme--while the other part of me stood off and listened. 

"By God, this is life!" said one part of me. "No, it isn't; it's hell, "growled the other part. "This thing has got to be settled!"

I took him to an oculist, and there I had another close view, this timeof intense relief. 

"Blind? Why, no, you're not going blind, " said the oculist kindly. "Allyou need is"--I heard nothing more. I had never had any idea before ofhow swift and deep relief could be. On the street outside I heard it notonly in his unsteady laugh but in my own as well. We celebrated longthat night, and very late he took me to his favorite place down on thelower quay of the river, where with the lights and the sounds of thecity far off it felt like some old dungeon. But just over our heads hungthe heavy black arch of a stone bridge, and looking up through this archas a frame we could see close above a gray, luminous mass rising andrising in great sweeping lines till it filled half the sky--silent, tremendous, Notre Dame. From down here the old edifice seemed alive. Andthough my friend talked little here, I felt him again coming into me. And this time it was his religion that came, his curious passion forbuilding. 

When at last we went home he could see my whole body, and I felt asthough I had seen his whole soul. 

Then I carefully wrote this down on paper. I put in every touch that Icould remember. I rewrote it to make it big, and I made it so big Ispoiled it all. I tore this up and began again. For about two weeks Iwrote nothing else. But at last I tore up everything. After all, he wasa friend of mine. 

"But where's the harm, " I argued, "so long as I always tear it up? Thisis real stuff. I'll get somewhere this way if I keep on. "

And I did keep on. Shamelessly I wormed my way into friends by thedozen. I found it such an absorbing pursuit I could hardly wait tofinish up one before I went on to another. There were such a bewilderinglot of them, now that I had pried open my eyes. Would-be painters, sculptors, poets, dramatists, novelists, rich and poor, tragic ones andcomic ones, with the meanest pettiest jealousies, the most bumptiousself-conceits, the blindest worship of masters, the most profoundhumility, ambition so savage it made men inhuman. Many were starvingthemselves to death. 

There was a little Hungarian Jew, an ardent follower of Matisse. 

"Technique?" he cried. "It is nothing! To grip your soul in your twohands and press it on your canvas--that is art, that is Matisse!"

He took me night after night through old buildings up in Montparnasse, immense and dismal rookeries crowded with Poles, Bohemians and God knowswhat other races, all feverish post-impressionists. Often we would findthree together close around one candle, scowling and squinting at theireasels, gaunt, silent, eager. Matisse--Matisse!

"Most of them, " said my guide, "are just mad. They cannot paint. Allthink they are going to do great things, but all they are going to do isto die. "

It was through this little Hungarian that I made my first study offemale life. 

Why delay any longer? I had been in Paris over six months, and I hadqualms almost of guilt at the thought of this chastity of mine. At firstI said, "Art is a jealous mistress. " And this did splendidly for a time. But then a stout German youth came along and laid it down as an absolutelaw that no writer could do a woman right until he had lived with adozen. Hence that scented little cat with whom he had lived for the pastyear. She was the first of the dozen, eh? Damn the fellow, how much wasthere in it? De Maupassant certainly hadn't held off. In fact there werefew of my idols who had. Why not be brave and take the plunge? It neednot be such a terrific plunge; no doubt if I went at it right I couldfind a safe, easy kind of a _her_, friendly and confiding, a thoroughlygood fellow with none of these wild ups and downs. The less temperamentthe better; she must have a good quiet head on her shoulders; no doubtwe would need it. And she must not be too young. Let her have hadaffairs enough to know that ours was only one more and would probably beas brief as the rest--the briefer the better. 

So tamely I pictured my first love. And the gay old city of Parissmiled, and in that bantering way of hers she brought to me in a caféone night a perfect young tigress of a girl, a lithe, dusky beauty withsmouldering eyes, and said:

"Without doubt this one is better for you. Regard what loveliness, whatfire! Oh, my son, why not be brave?"

I was not brave, I barely spoke, and my friend the little Hungarian Jewwho had brought her to my table was forced to do the talking. For she, too, was silent. But how different was her silence from the quiet I hadpictured. Presently, however, I became a little easier, and by degreeswe began to talk. She told me she was a painter. An Armenian by birth, she had run away from home at eighteen, and here for two years inJulien's she had tried to paint till she felt she'd go mad. She talkedin abrupt, eager sentences, breaking off to watch people around us. Howher big eyes fastened upon them. "To watch faces until you are sure--andthen paint! There is nothing else in the world!" she said. And I foundthis reassuring. 

After that I saw her many nights. And from time to time breaking thatsilence of hers, she became so fiercely confiding, not only about herpainting, but about what she called her innermost soul, that soon Icould look my De Maupassant square in the face, man to man, for I waslearning a lot about women. As yet we were friends and nothing more, butI could feel both of us changing fast. "In a little while, " I thought. 

But alas. One night she took me up to her room and showed me herpaintings. They were bad. They were fearfully bad, and my face must haveshown the impression they made. 

"You consider them frightful!" she exclaimed. I stoutly denied it, butthings only went from bad to worse. Here was that temperament I haddreaded. Now she was clutching both my arms. 

"Mon dieu! Why not say it? Why cannot you say it?"

"No, " I replied. "You have done some extremely powerful work!" Anythingto quiet her nerves. "Especially this one--look--over here!" And Ipointed to one of her pictures. 

"I will show you how I shall look at it!" she cried in a perfect frenzyof tears. She snatched up a knife that lay on her table, a very old, curved, Armenian knife, and went at the painting and slashed it toshreds, and then scattered the shreds all over the room. 

And watching this little festival, I thought to myself excitedly, "I know enough about this girl!"

My retreat was so precipitate as to appear almost a flight. 

"Yes, " I said to myself, outside, "De Maupassant knew women. And he wentinsane at forty-five. "

And so my next case was a chap from Detroit, whose aim, he told me, wasno less than to make himself "by the sheer force of my will a perfect, all-round, modern man. "

It was over his case that I lost what was left of my sense of honor. ForI not only wrote him down, I kept what I had written. "Ten years fromnow, " I said in excuse, "I won't believe him unless he's on paper. " Buthaving kept this, I began keeping others, until my locked drawer wasfilled with the dreams and ambitions and even the loves of my confiding, innocent friends. At last I was a writer. 

What a relief when my mother wrote that my father had consented to asecond year abroad for me. In my gratitude I even grew just a triflehomesick. 

"Hadn't I better come home for the summer?" I wrote her. 

"No, " she replied, "we cannot afford it. I want you to keep right onwith your work. I feel so sure you are working hard and will do things Ishall be proud of. "

I was not only working, but living, feeling, listening hard, under thestimulus day and night of the tense, rich life around me. About thistime I made a friend of a gaunt, bearded Russian chap, whose dream foryears had been, like mine, to become a writer of fiction. His god hadbeen Turgenief. And a year ago, leaving his home, a little town nearMoscow, with forty roubles in his purse he had set out on foot with apack on his back to tramp the long and winding road that stretched awaytwo thousand miles to the distant city of Paris, the place where hisidol had lived and studied and written for so many years. Through thisyoung Russian pilgrim I came to know the books of some of hiscountrymen, and through him I caught glimpses down into the vast, mysterious soul of that people in the North. 

Through other chaps I met those days, other deep, tremendous vistasopened up as backgrounds for these Paris friends of mine. Half thenight, in that café endeared to so many youths of all nations under itsname of "The Dirty Spoon, " I heard talk about all things under the sun, talk that was a merry war of words, ideas and points of view as wideapart as that of a Jap and a German. For every land upon the earth hadsent its army of ideas, and they all charged together here, and thewalls of the Dirty Spoon resounded with the battle--with roars oflaughter and applause. For we were of free, tolerant minds. We were gay, young dogs of war who had left our tails behind us--our tails ofprejudice, distrust--and our emancipated souls had only scorn forhatreds born of race or creed. Like J. K. , we had rid ourselves of allcreeds past and present--but J. K. Had always been free with a scowl, his feet set grimly on the ground--we here were free with a verve and adash that took us careering up into the stars to laugh at the veryheavens. 

There was breadth in our very manner of speech. For here were we fromall over the earth, all speaking one tongue, the language in which halfthe things that had moved the world had been said by men before us. Andwhat sparkling things there were still to be said, what dazzling thingswe would see and do, in this prodigious onward march of the armies ofpeace, out of all dark ages into a glad new world for men, where ourgreat smiling goddess of all the arts would reign supreme, where wewould dream mighty visions of life and all these visions would cometrue. 

So we saw the world those days in the radiant city on the Seine. 

And meanwhile far up in the North, the Russian Czar, having started withloud ostentation the movement for a world-wide peace, was swiftlycompleting his preparations to strike with his armies at Japan. And theother nations of Europe, jealous and suspicious of each other's everysecret plan--they, too, were making ready for what the future yearsmight bring. 

"Young men are lucky. They will see great things. "

And these young men have seen great things. But they have not beenlucky. 

CHAPTER XI

It was about a year after this that again Joe Kramer broke in on mydreams. 

He arrived early on a raw, wet morning in the following winter. Hisall-night ride from Cherbourg had left him disheveled, unshaven andhungry. 

"Well, boys, " he asked when our greetings were over, "what do you thinkof the news?"

"What news?"

Joe gave us a grim, fatherly smile. 

"Say. Do I have to come all the way from Chicago to tell you what'shappening down the street? Well, you young beauty boosters, there's apanic on the Bourse this week that's got your fair city flat on herback. And the cause of the said panic is that France is in deep onRussian bonds, which are now worth about a cent to the dollar. Becausethe Russian people--already dead sick of the war with Japan--have risenin a howling mob against their government. See?"

"I did hear of that, " said the painter among us. "A Polish chap in thestudio said something about it yesterday. "

"Now, did he?" said the ironical Joe. "Just kind of murmured it, Isuppose, while bending reverently over his art. " He rose. "Well, boys, I'm sorry for you, but I've only got a day in this town, I'm off forRussia on the night train. Bill, I wish you'd help me here. I've got anawful lot to do and my French is still a little weak. "

It was not at all weak, it was strong and loud. I can hear it still, JoeKramer's French, and it is a fitting memory of that devastating day. 

The day began so splendidly, so big with promise of great ideas. I grewquite excited about it. Here was Joe on his way to a real revolution. Sent out by his Chicago paper, he was going to Russia to see a wholepeople fight to be free--a struggle prophesied long ago by Turgenief, Tolstoy and other big Russians whose work I admired. And now it wasactually coming off--and Joe, the lucky devil, was going to be right onhand! From some mysterious source in New York he had secured a letter toa Russian revolutionist leader who for many years had been an exile herein Paris. Joe was anxious to see him at once. 

"All right, " I said eagerly. "Give me his address. "

"Hold on, " J. K. Retorted. "It's not so easy as all that. I want to getinto Russia. This man's house in Paris is watched day and night by theRussian secret police, and nobody who's seen with him has a chance ofcrossing the frontier. We've got to go slow. "

"What'll we do?"

"I want you to steer me first to a Frenchman. He's an anarchist. Here'shis address. "

The anarchist was a bit disappointing. A mild little man, we found himin an attic room receiving a vigorous scolding from the huge blonde withwhom he lived. But after reading Joe's letter, he, too, took on amysterious air. He came with us in our cab, and off we went over Parisuntil I thought we should never end. Again and again the cab would stopand our guide would darkly disappear. But from one of these trips hereturned triumphant. 

"I have found his wife, " he announced. "But she says she must have alook at you first. " The cab rattled off, and the next stop was in frontof a public library. 

"Now, " said our guide, "go in and sit down at a table and pretend youare reading. "

We went in and did as he said. Soon a middle-aged woman in black satdown at the other side of the table. She stared at us gloomily amoment; then with a yawn she opened a book and calmly started makingnotes. Presently, scowling over her work, she began muttering toherself. 

"You must not look up, " I heard in French. "A Russian spy sits overthere. You wish to see my husband. Come to-night at nine o'clock to thesecond floor of the Café Voltaire. He will be at the top of the stairs. Good-by. " And she yawned again over her writing. 

"Now, this, " I thought, "is a revolution!" I thoroughly approved ofthis. The Café Voltaire was an excellent choice, an almost perfectmise-en-scène. It had long been one of my favorite haunts. A tall whitewooden building, so toned down, so tumbled down, so heavy laden withmemories of poets, dramatists, pamphleteers and fiery young orators, whohad sat here and conspired and schemed and exhorted over human rights. It had well lived up to its glorious name. What great ideas had startedfrom here! Here French history had been made!

But alas! Into this hallowed spot that night, at nine o'clock on his wayto his train, came Joe in a yellow mackintosh with a brand-new suitcasein his hand--and showed me history in the making. It was made in asmall, stuffy room upstairs. On the one side J. K. With a millionAmerican readers behind him, on the other this revolutionist whose namethat week had been in newspapers all over the world. So far, so good. But look at him, look at this history maker. Tall, sallow and dyspeptic, a professor of economics. Romance, liberty, history, thrill? Not at all. They talked of factories, wages, strikes, of railroads, peasants' taxes, of plows and wheat and corn and hay! They got quite excited over hay. 

And all this had to come through their defenseless interpreter--me. Myhead ached, one foot fell asleep. The Social Democratic Party, theSocial Revolutionist Party, the Constitutional Democrats, in and out ofmy head they trooped. If this be revolution, then God save the king!Crushed to earth, as we left at last, my head still buzzing witheconomics, I looked dismally back on my poor café, on liberty, justiceand human rights. There was something as bad as the harbor in Joe; hewas always spoiling everything. 

"Why don't you take Carlyle's French Revolution along?" I suggestedforlornly. "You might read it on the train. "

"Because, you poor kid, he's way out of date. "

It took me days to get into my work. 

 * * * * *

About two months later, back he came. From one of our front windows helooked down into the old Gardens, into all the loveliness the Apriltwilight was bringing there, and, "Where can I get a typewriter?" he asked. "I've got such an awful lot ofstuff that I want to dictate it right off the bat. "

This was _literature_ in the making. For hours in Joe's room that week Isat and heard him make it. In one corner lay a heap of dirty shirts andcollars, in another a stack of papers and books. An English stenographersat at the window, J. K. Strode up and down and talked. It was realenough, this narrative. Facts and figures, he had them down cold, toback up with a crushing force the points he was making against the Czar. Poverty, tyranny, bloody oppression, wholesale slaughter of a people ina half-mad monarch's war--Joe pounded them in with sledgehammer blows. He not only made you sure they were true, he made you sure that thesethings must be stopped and that you as a decent American certainlywanted to help with your money. And as for the revolution itself, heleft no doubt in your mind about that. It was there all right, Joe hadseen people give up their lives, he had seen men and women clubbed andshot down, he had been so near he had seen the blood. (But he made humanblood so darned commonplace, curse him!) And in Petersburg for two longnights he had gone about a city in darkness, every street light put outby the strikers, the streets filled with surging black masses offigures. Yes, Joe had certainly seen big things. 

Then what was the matter with me, I thought, that all this did notthrill me? "Young men are lucky. They will see great things. " All right, here was one of _my_ great things, a whole nation rising to throw offits chains, to show the world that wars must cease--and to me it didn'tseem great at all, it seemed only big, and there was a world ofdifference. Big? It was enormous, not only what Joe had seen up there, but what he was doing right here in this room. He was talking to amillion people, damn him, and doubtless this was just the kind ofwriting that would appeal to them. Thousands of his commonplace readerswould send their dollars to Russia, where dyspeptic professors ofeconomics would use the money to hire halls, into which millions ofcommonplace Russians would crowd to hear about strikes, wages, taxes andhay! And then some more commonplace blood would be shed, the dyspepticprofessors would be put in office--and this was a modern revolution!

Was everything modern only big? Must I always have that feeling theharbor used to give me?

"No!" I decided angrily. The fault didn't lie in me nor in Russia, butin J. K. And the way he was writing. As I followed that blunt narrativeof his journey through cities and factory towns, into deep forests, across snowy plains and through little hamlets half buried in snow andfilled with the starving families of the men who had gone to the war, Itried to picture it all to myself--not as he described it, confound him, but with all the beauty which must have been there. Ye Gods of the Road, what a journey! What tremendous canvases teeming with life, suchstrange, dramatic significant life! What a chance for a writer!

One night on a train whose fifth-class cars, cattle cars and nothingmore, were packed with wounded men from the front, out of one of thosetraveling hells Joe had pulled a peasant boy half drunk, and by thedisplay of a bottle of vodka had enticed him into his own compartment ina second-class car ahead. The boy's right arm was a loathsome sight, festering from a neglected wound. Amputation was plainly a matter ofdays. But it was not to forget that grim event that the boy had jumpedoff at each little station to spend his few kopecks on vodka. No, he wasstolidly getting drunk because, as he confided to Joe, at dawn he wouldcome to his home town and there he knew he was going to tell twenty-sixwives that their men had been killed. He laboriously counted them off onhis fingers--each wife and each husband by their long, homely Russiannames. Then he burst into half-drunken sobs and pounded the window ledgewith his fist. It was the fist of his right arm, and the kid gave aqueer, sharp scream of pain. 

If Voltaire had been there he would have come back and described thatpeasant boy he'd seen in a way that would have gripped men's souls andsent a great shudder over the world at war and what it meant tomankind--while Joe was simply slapping it down like some hustling, keenreporter. 

"Look here, Joe; you make me sick!" I exploded at last. "You ought tostick right here for months and work on this wonderful stuff you've gottill there's nothing left you can possibly do!"

"Be an artist, eh, a poet, a great writer. " He gave me one of thosefatherly smiles. "I've got some things to say to _you_, Kid. I don'tlike the life you're leading. "

"Don't you? Why don't you?" I rejoined. And so began a fight that lastedas long as he was in Paris. 

Nothing that I had been doing here made any appeal whatever to Joe. Ishowed him my sketch of Notre Dame from under that old bridge at night. 

"Yes, " he said, "this is fine writing, awful fine. But it has about asmuch meaning to me as a woman's left ear. What's the use of sitting downunder a bridge and looking up at an ancient church and trying to feellike a two-spot? For God's sake, Bill, get it out of your system, quitgetting reverent over the past. You're sitting here at the feet of theMasters, fellahs who were all right in their day, but are now every oneof 'em out of date. And you're so infernally busy copying theirtechnique and style and trying to learn just how to write, that you'regetting nothing to write about. Why can't you go to life for yourstuff?"

"Go to life?" I said indignantly. "I've done nothing else for over ayear!"

"Show me. "

"Here!"

He read more of my sketches. 

"But damn it, Bill, these people aren't alive. They're only a bunch ofartist kids as reverent over the past as yourself, they have about asmuch connection with anything live and vital to-day as so many mediævalmonks. You fellahs think you're free of creeds. You're the creediestkids I ever saw, your religion is style, technique and form. For God'ssake lose it and use your own eyes, forget you're an artist and be areporter, come out in the world and have a try. You'll find so muchstuff you won't need any plots, you'll simply report events as theyhappen. And you won't have any time for technique, the next event willbe tuning up before you've got to the end of the last. With a big dailypaper behind him a good reporter can follow the front page around theworld. Russia's on the front page now. All right, you can go to Russia. By June it may be Hindustan, or Pittsburgh, Turkey or China. Believe me, Bill, the nations of this planet are working themselves into a statewhere they're ready to do things you never dreamed of. I'm not talkingof kings and governments, I'm talking of the people themselves, thepeople in such excited crowds that nobody knows who's who or what'snext. 

"I saw my first crowd in Petersburg the very day I got off the train. They filled a street from wall to wall and as far as you could see. Theyweren't saying a word or singing a song, and there wasn't even a drum tokeep time. But they moved along with their wives and kids as thoughthey'd left home, job and church, and were looking for something else sohard they didn't care for bullets. I saw 'em shot down like so manysheep. But bullets won't stop what I saw in their eyes. God knows Idon't want a religion. I'm no socialist nor anarchist. But if there'sone thing I want to hang on to it's my belief in the common crowd. They've had a raw deal since the world began. They can have the wholeearth whenever they want it. And they're beginning to want it hard!

"Forget your own name and jump into the crowd, write and don't stop toremember you're writing! The place _you_ need is the U. S. A. --and thework you need is a job on a paper!"

"Are you through?" I snapped. 

"I am!"

"All right, " said I. "I'm going to stay just where I am! I'm not goingto be yanked by you all over the earth, to write news articles on therun! I'm going to stick in one place--right here--and take my time andlearn my job. I don't want to write news, I want to write books. I'drather write one good novel than all the headline stuff in the world. It's books that make the headlines. "

"_Books?_" Joe's look was funny. 

"Sure they do. Take Russia. What started this whole revolution! Books. It didn't start with your common crowds--they were all eating friedonions. It started with a few writers of novels!"

"Who left their little mahogany desks, " said Joe, "got into peasantclothes and went to live with the peasants!"

"Oh no they didn't. Only a few. Turgenief didn't. Tchernichefsky didn't. Dostoiefsky----"

"Say. Are they Russians? I never heard their names up there. "

I looked at J. K. Thoughtfully. 

"No, " I said. "You wouldn't. As yet they're not quite crowdy enough. Butthey are Russians and their ideas made most of the first revolutionists. The whole revolution was started by books. "

"It wasn't, " snapped Joe. "It was taxes. Their taxes were doubledbecause of the war, and----"

"Oh, damn your war taxes, and damn your plows and your corn and hay!You've got a hay mind, that's the trouble with you! You've got so youthink that hay and bread and pork and beans are all men live and diefor! They don't, Mister Reporter, they die for ideals--freedom, democracy, human rights--which are in 'em so deep that when a big writersees 'em there and brings 'em out and holds 'em up and says, 'Here! Thisis you, this is what you want, this is what you believe in!'--your crowdsays, 'Sure! Why didn't we see it long ago?' And then they do things thatgo into headlines! But to be able to write like that a man can't gochasing all over the earth, he's got to quit sneering at art andtechnique, he's got to learn how to make characters real and build plotsthat make readers sit up all night to see what becomes of the peoplehe's made! If believing that is a creed, then I'm creedy! I'm willing tothrow over everything else, but I'll hang on to this one thing all mylife--the fact that big art means working like hell!"

"Gee, " said J. K. "What an artist. "

These fights of ours left me weak and sore, as though I'd been back onthe terrace at home, listening to my father talk and looking at hisharbor. 

CHAPTER XII

When Joe left me in peace at last, just for the sake of the rest andchange I turned my attention to music, or, rather, to a musical friend, a young Bohemian composer who lived wholly in a world of his own. Iexplored this musical world of his, by his side in dark top galleries, in the Café Rouge on concert nights, in his room at his piano. Howdeliciously far away from hay was this chap's feeling for Mozart. Withhim I could feel sure of myself, of the way I was living for my art, ofwhat my mother way back at the start had called the "fine things" inhumanity. 

I remember the night we heard "Bohème" from the gallery of the OpéraComique. I remember the talk we had late that night, and my walk by theedge of the Gardens home--and the letter and the cable that I foundwaiting on my desk. The letter was from my father and told me that mymother was dying. The cable told me she was dead. 

I remember learning that letter by heart on that long ocean voyage home. This was no sudden illness, I learned, my mother had known of it while Iwas home, known that she had it and that it was fatal. That was the newsshe had told my father alone that night on the terrace! That was why shehad been so eager to get me away to Paris; that was why she had kept meabroad!

"She did not want you to see how she looked, " my father wrote. "Shewanted you to remember her always as she was when you saw her last. "

I remembered her now. What a young beast I had been to forget her, todrop her so utterly out of my thoughts in that selfish happy Paris life, when it was she who had sent me there, when it was she who had set mefree for a time from the harbor which was now dragging me back, when itwas she from the very start who had fostered this passion for "all thatis fine. " I remembered her now--remembered and remembered--until herdear image filled me. 

My father's letter went on to tell how she had fought for her life. Three operations, all three of them failures, but still she had heldbravely on in hopes of some new discovery which science might make andso bring her a cure. A thought suddenly gripped me and struck me cold. It had all depended on science, on men working calmly and coldly alongin laboratories all over the world, while my mother had held to herthread of life and hoped that these laboratory gods would hurry, hurrywhile yet there was time! How many thousands like her every day, everyhour all over the world were watching those gods with that awfulsuspense. For they were the only gods that were left, and a comfortlessset of gods they were! They were like J. K. , they had hay minds! Theywere businesslike, relentless, cold, they belonged to the world of theharbor! My mother's kind god was a myth and a joke, with no power hereone way or the other. I _felt_ that now, I had _thought_ it before, onlythought it, with that gay freedom of thought we had aired back there inParis. But I knew now that deep underneath I had believed all along inthis god of hers, as I had in my beautiful goddess of art and in all thethings that were fine. It had taken this news from the harbor to bringhim tottering, crashing down. For no god like hers would have let herdie! And I felt fear now, the fear of Death, whom I'd never reallynoticed before and who now seemed to say to me, "She is nothing--has gone nowhere--she is only dead!"

And fiercely in a bewildered way I rebelled against this emptiness. Irebelled against this world of hay that was so abruptly dragging me backto a sense of its almighty grip on my life. When my ship came up theBay, the world looked harsh and gray to me, though there was a brightand sunny glare on the muddy waves of the harbor. 

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

My mother had been buried several days before I reached home. 

I found Sue waiting on the dock, and I saw with a little shock ofsurprise that my young sister was grown up. I had never noticed her muchbefore. Sue and I had never got on from the start. She had been myfather's chum and I had been my mother's. I had always felt her mockingsmile toward me and all my solemn thoughts. And after that smallcatastrophe which I had had with Eleanore, I had more than ever avoidedSue and her girl friends. Then I had gone to college, and each time thatI came home she had seemed to me all arms and legs, fool secrets andfool giggles--a most uninteresting kid. I remember being distinctlysurprised when I brought Joe home for Christmas to find that he thoughther quite a girl. But now she was all different. She had grown tall andgraceful, lithe, and in her suit of mourning she looked so much older, her face thin and worn, subdued and softened by all she'd been through. For the weight of all those weary weeks had been upon her shoulders. There was something pitiful about her. I came up and kissed herawkwardly, then found myself suddenly holding her close. She clung to meand trembled a little. I found it hard to speak. 

"I wish I'd been here, too, " I said gruffly. 

"I wish you had, Billy--it's been a long time. "

All at once Sue and I had become close friends. 

We had a long talk, at home that day, and she told me how our parentshad drawn together in the last years, of how my poor mother had wantedmy father close by her side and of how he had responded, neglecting hisbusiness and spending his last dollar on doctors, consultations andtrips to sanitariums, anything to keep up her strength. He had even read"Pendennis" aloud. How changed he must have been to do that. I knew whyshe had wanted to hear it again. It had been our favorite book. Iremembered how I had read it to her just before I went abroad, and how Ihad caught her watching me with that hungry despairing look in her eyes. What a young brute I had been to go!. .. For a time Sue's voice seemedfar away. Then I heard her telling how over that story of a young authormy mother had talked to my father of me. 

"He's going to try to know you, Billy, and help you, " said Sue. "Hepromised her that before she died. And I hope you're going to help him, too. He needs you very badly. You never understood father, you know. Idon't believe you have any idea of what he has gone through in hisbusiness. "

"What do you mean? Have things gone wrong?"

"I don't understand it very well. He hardly ever speaks of it. I thinkhe'd better tell you himself. "

 * * * * *

That evening in his library, from my seat by the table, I furtivelywatched my father's face. He sat in a huge chair against the wall, witha smaller chair in front for his feet, his vest unbuttoned, his shortheavy body settled low as he grimly kept his eyes on his book. Thestrong overhead light which shone on his face showed me the deeperlines, all the wrinkles, the broad loose pouch of skin on the throat, the gray color, the pain, the weakness and the age in his motionlesseyes. What was going on in there? Sometimes it would seem an hour beforehe turned another page. All afternoon he had been at her grave. 

He had given her no happy life. Was it of that he was thinking? I feltashamed to be wondering, for he seemed so weak and old in his grief. Twoyears ago his hair had been gray, but he had still looked strong andhale. I could hardly feel now that he was the same man. I felt drawn tohim now, I wished he would put down his book and talk and tell meeverything about her. 

But what an embarrassing job it is to get acquainted with one's father. When Sue had left us after dinner, there had been a few brief remarksand then this long tense silence. I, too, pretended to be reading. 

"Your mother thought a lot of you, boy. " He spoke at last so abruptlythat I looked up at him with a start, and saw him watching me anxiously. 

"Yes, sir. " I looked quickly down, and our eyes did not meet again afterthat. 

"It was her pluck that kept you in Paris--while she was dying. "

I choked:

"I know. "

"You don't know--not how she wanted you back--you'll never know. Iwanted to write you to come home. "

"I wish you had!"

"She wouldn't hear of it!"

"I see. " Another silence. Why couldn't I think of something to say?

"She kept every letter you wrote her. They're up there in her bureaudrawer. She was always reading 'em--over and over. She thought a lot ofyour writing, boy--of what you would do when--when she was dead. " Thelast came out almost fiercely. I waited a moment, got hold of myself. 

"Yes, sir, " I brought out at last. 

"I hope you'll make it all worth while. "

"I will. I'll try. I'll do my best. " I did not look up, for I couldstill feel his anxious eyes upon my face. 

"Do you want to go back to Paris?"

"No, sir! I want to stay right here!" What was the matter with my foolvoice?

"Have you got any plans for your writing here? How are you going aboutit to start?"

"Well, sir, to begin with--I've got some stuff I did abroad. "

"Stories?"

"Not exactly----"

"Poems?" My father's look was tragic. 

"No. "

And I tried to explain what I had been doing. But my attempts to tellhim of my work in Paris were as forced and as pathetic as his efforts toattend. More and more halting grew our talk, and it ended in a silencethat seemed to have no end. Then I went to the fireplace, knocked theashes out of my pipe, refilled it and relit it. When I returned he wasreading his book, and with deep relief I took up mine. That much of itwas over. 

But again I found myself watching him. What was in my father's mind? Whythis anxious almost humble tone? It made me wince, it made me ashamed. Isat there all evening pretending to read and feeling that he was doingthe same. 

"Good night, dad--I think I'll go to bed. " Even this little cameclumsily. I had never called him "dad" before. 

"Good night, my boy. See you at breakfast. "

"Yes, sir. "

I glanced back as I turned down the hall and saw him staring after me. 

What was it he was thinking?

CHAPTER II

"I'm closing out my business, son, " he told me the next morning. Herewas another sharp surprise. I did not look at him as I asked:

"Why are you doing that, sir?"

"It's a long story. Times have changed and I'm getting old. "

Again I felt suddenly drawn to him. He was old and no mistake. Why had Inever known him till now?

"Look here--Dad. " The last word still came awkwardly. "Can't I possiblybe any help down there?" He shot an anxious look at me:

"Why, yes. Glad to have you. I still have a young clerk, but I'd ratherhave you. "

Only one clerk! What had gone wrong with his business?

But that day in his warehouse, which was empty now and silent, the mereghost of what it had been, he seemed in no hurry to show me. On thecontrary, he went back to the ledgers of his earliest years in business, on the flimsy pretext of looking up certain figures and dates. He didnot need me here, the work he gave me was absurd, I was simply takingthe musty books from their piles in the closet and arranging them byyears on the floor. "To save time, " he said. But he himself was still onthat first ledger, stopping to talk, to ramble off from the pages beforehim. What did it mean? As the days wore on and he still delayed and atnight that strange humility crept again into his eyes, with a slowlydeepening suspense I came to feel that instead of saving time my fatherwas trying to make it, to go far back into his vigorous past forstrength to meet his present--because he dreaded what we would find atthe end of our work on these dusty books, the last grim figure indollars and cents that would stand there as the result of his life, asthe stepping-stone for Sue's and mine. And that was why he wanted mehere, this was his way of telling me the story of his businesslife--before I saw what lay at the end. And as in our work that storyunfolded, though at times it cast its spell on me hard, revealing what aman he had been, there were other times when from somewhere deep insideof me a small selfish voice would ask:

"What is left? How much has he saved from the wreck? What is this goingto mean to my life?"

In the ledgers his story was still alive. Yellow and dusty as they were, for me day by day they revivified that still odorous old warehouse untilI saw it as it had been, a huge dim caravansary for the curious productsof all the earth. And that trick of feeling a man, which I had learnedin Paris, made me keenly sensitive now to this lonely old stranger by myside with whom I was becoming acquainted. I could feel the pull of thesebooks upon him, pulling him out of his cramped old age back to his gladboundless youth. How suddenly spacious they became as he slowly turnedthe pages. Palm oil from Africa, cotton from Bombay, coffee from Arabia, pepper from Sumatra. Turn the page. Ivory from Zanzibar, salt from Cadizand wines from Bordeaux. Turn the page. Whale oil from the Arctic, ironfrom the Baltic, tortoise shell from the Fiji Islands. Turn the page!India silks and rugs and shawls, indigo, spices! Turn the page!

I began to see the sails speed out along those starlit ocean roads. Ibegan to feel the forces that had shaped my father's life. And little bylittle I saw in those days what not even my mother had understood, thatin my father's business life there had been more than dollars, that whatto us had seemed only a hobby, a dull obstinate fixed idea, had been forhim a glorious vision--the white sails of American clippers dotting allthe seven seas. 

So they were in the late Fifties, when leaving the farm in Illinois hecame at sixteen to New York and found a job as time clerk in one of theship yards along the East River. They are all gone now, but then theywere humming and teeming with work. And my young father was deeplyexcited. He told me of his first day here, when he stood on the deck ofa ferry and watched three great clippers go out with the tide, bound forCalcutta. There were pictures of these vessels on the walls of hisoffice, stately East Indiamen bearing such names as _Star of Empire_, _Daniel Webster_, _Ocean Monarch_, _Flying Cloud_--ships known in everyport of the world for their speed. He told how a British vessel, hertopsails reefed in a gale of wind, would see a white tower of swellingcanvas come out of the spray behind her, come booming, staggering, plunging by--a Yankee clipper under royals. Press of sail? No othernation knew what it meant! Our owners took big chances, it was no tradefor nervous men!

He found a harbor that welcomed young men, where cabin boys rose to becaptains, and clerks became owners of hundreds of ships. To work! Torise! To own yards like these, build ships like these and send themrushing on their courses out to all parts of the ocean world! This hadbeen his vision, at the time when it was bright and clear. And as now hemade me feel it, the crude vital force that had been in his dream pouredinto me deep, made me feel how shut in and one-sided had been my ownvision and standards of life, gave me that profound surprise which manysons, I suppose, never have:

"My father was once young like me--wiry, straight and tough like me, andas full of dreams of the things he would do. "

But then had come the Civil War. Although only nineteen when the warbroke out, he was already the head clerk in his office. "But like everyother young fool those days, " he said, "I was caught by the noise of abrass band!" Down South as a commissary clerk he found himself a tinypawn in that gigantic game of graft which made fat fortunes in the Northand cost tens of thousands of soldiers their lives. He himself tooktyphoid, and when the war was over he returned to New York, weak, penniless, to find his old work gone. 

"For the war, " he said, "had busted American shipping sky high. Evenbefore it began it had made the South so bitter that just for the sakeof attacking the North the Solid South in congress had joined the damnfool Farmer West and attacked our mail subventions. 'No more of thenation's money, ' they said, 'for ship subsidies for New York and NewEngland!' And so all government protection of our shipping waswithdrawn. And when the war ended, with forty per cent of our shipsgrabbed, sunk or sold, it was ruination to build any more, for theBritish and German governments were pouring millions of dollars a yearinto the Cunard and the North German Lloyd, and we couldn't competeagainst them. 

"Still a few of the ship yards kept on, and in one of these at last Igot a job at eight dollars a week. 'The war is over, ' we told ourselves, 'and the government can't stay blind forever. They'll see what they'vedone, and within a few months they'll go back to the old policy. 'Months? I stuck to that job and waited five years--and still no newsfrom Washington. 'My boy, ' said a doddering Brooklynite, 'the nation hasturned her face westward. '"

Then he left the ship yards and went into a warehouse, where the worklay mainly in handling cargoes of foreign ships. And starting life allover again he tried to make up for lost time. The first year he was ashipping clerk; the second, a bookkeeper; the third, he kept two sets ofbooks for two different docks, one by day and the other at night. And byforty he had become a part owner in the old warehouse in which he nowsat grimly reading the record of his life--of a long stubborn losingfight, for he stuck to his dream of Yankee sails. 

He married my mother when he was still strong and full of hope. He musthave been so much kindlier then and brighter, more human to live with. They bought that pleasant house of ours with its hospitable front door. My father's doddering Brooklynites seemed wonderful neighbors to hisyoung wife. And so that front door waited for friends. As the yearsdragged on and they did not come, she blamed it all on the harbor. Shesaw what it was making him, jealous of every dollar and every hour spentat home. He worked all day and half the night. It took him intopolitics, on countless trips to Washington, and she knew he spentthousands of dollars there in ways that were by no means "fine. " It madehim morose and gloomy, a man of one idea, to be shunned. 

And she no more saw behind all this than I did when I was a boy. For hisvision was neither of pirates nor of bringing the heathen to Christ, butof imports and of exports. He dreamed in terms of battleships and of amercantile marine. Each year he watched the chances grow, vastcontinents opening up to commerce with hints of such riches as staggeredthe mind. He saw the ocean world an arena into which rushed all nationsbut ours. 

"Everyone but us, " he said, "had learned the big lesson--that you canget nothing on land or sea unless you're ready to fight for it hard!"

He saw other nations get ready to fight. He watched them build hugenavies and grant heavy subsidies to their fast growing merchant fleets, send vessels by thousands over the seas. He saw their shipowners drawswiftly together in great corporations. Here was an age for immenseadventures in this growing trade of the world. To wait, to hold ongrimly, to keep up the fight at Washington for that miracle, Protection, which would start the boom. To see the shipping yards teeming again withthe building of ships by the hundreds and thousands, to see them go outagain over the seas with our flag at the mast and our sailors below. Tofeel the new call go over the nation--"Young men, come east and west, come out! The first place on the oceans can still be yours!" This was myfather's great idea. 

Ship subsidies and battleships, discriminating tariffs. What a religion. But it was his. Of the miracles these things would work my father wasmore sure than of a god in heaven. For he had thought very little abouta god, and all his life he had thought about this. For this he had spentat least half his wealth on the congressmen that he despised. Bribery?Yes. But for a religion. 

"Go all around South America and to the Far East, " he told me. "Andyou'll see the flags at sea of England, Germany, Austria, France, ofRussia, Norway, Spain, Japan. But if you see the American flag you'llsee it waved by a little girl from the deck of a British liner. Thismeans that we are losing in marine freights and foreign trade billionsof dollars every year. And it means more and worse than that. For it'sship building and ship sailing that take a nation's men out of theirruts, whip up their minds and imaginations, make 'em broad as the sevenseas. And we've lost all that, we've thrown it away, to breed a race offarmers--of factory hands and miners and anarchists in slums. We'vebuilt a nation of high finance--and graft--and a rising angry mob. Butsooner or later, boy, this country will wake up to what it has done. Andwith our grip on both oceans and the blood we've still got in our veins, we'll reach out and take what is ours--as soon as we're ready to fightfor it hard--the mastery of the ocean world!"

For this idea he had lived his life. For this he had neglected hisbusiness, for this he had lost favor with the usurping foreignships--until his dock and his warehouse were often idle for weeks at atime. 

And the very bigness of things, the era of big companies which at fortyhad thrilled him by the first signs of its coming, now crushed downupon his old age. Vaguely he knew that the harbor had changed and thathe was too old to change with it. An era no longer of human adventuresfor young men but of financial adventures for mammoth corporations, great foreign shipping companies combining in agreements with theAmerican railroads to freeze out all the little men and take tothemselves the whole port of New York. My father was one of these littlemen. The huge company to which he was selling owned the docks andwarehouses for over two miles, and this was only a part of theirholdings. 

"Nothing without fighting. " That had been his motto. And he had foughtand he had lost. And so in this new harbor of big companies my fatherwas now closing out. Too late for any business here, too late for lifeup there in his home. He had kept my mother waiting too long, he wasready at last but she was dead. Too late. He had been born too late, haddreamed his dream of sails too late, and now he was too late in dying. There was nothing left to live for. How much better for him to be dead. 

CHAPTER III

I have tried to tell his story as my father felt it, at the times whenit took him out of himself and made him forget himself and me. But therewere other times when he remembered himself and me, and those were thetimes that hurt the most. For in that new humility in his eyes and inhis voice I could feel him then preparing us both--me to see why it wasthat he could not do for me what _she_ had wished; himself to hold ongrimly, to find a new job for his old age, to keep from becoming aburden--on me. 

At last we were coming to the end--to that last figure in dollars andcents. I caught his suspense and we talked little now. I knew the priceat which he was selling, and toward that figure I watched the debtscreep slowly up. I saw them creep over, and knew that we had not adollar left to live on. And still the debts kept mounting. How smallthey were, these last ones, a coil of rope, two kegs of paint--the ironyof it compared to the bigness of his life. Still these little figuresclimbed. At last he handed me his balance. He was in debt four thousand, one hundred and forty-six dollars and seventeen cents. 

He had risen from his old office chair:

"Well, son, I guess that ends our work. "

"Yes, sir. "

He went out of the office. 

I sat there dully for some time. Then I remember there came a harshscream from a freight engine close outside. And I looked out of thewindow. 

The harbor of big companies, uglier than I had ever seen it, no longerdotted with white sails, but clouded with the smoke and soot of an ageof steam, and iron, lay sprawled out there like a thing alive. Alwayschanging, always growing, it had crushed the life out of my father andmother, and now it was ready for Sue and me. 

"I've got to stay here and make money. "

Good-by to the Beautiful City of Grays. A clock in an outer room struckfive. In Paris it was ten o'clock, and those friends of mine from allcountries were crowding into "The Dirty Spoon. " I could see themsauntering one by one on that summer's night down the gay old BoulevardSaint Michel and dropping into their seats at the table in the corner. 

"How am I to make money? By writing?"

I thought of De Maupassant and the rest, and the two years I had spentin trying to make vivid and real the life I had seen. In these lastanxious weeks I had sent some of my Paris sketches to magazine officesin New York. They had all been returned with printed slips of rejection, except in one case where the editor wrote, "This is a good piece ofwriting, but the subject is too remote. Why not try something nearerhome?"

"All right, " I thought, "what's near me here? Let's see. There's a cloudof yellow smoke I can do, with a brand-new tug below it dragging astring of good big barges. What are they loaded with? Standard Oil. Waittill they get closer and I can even describe the smell! No, " I concludedsavagely. "Let's keep my writing clean out of this hole and get themoney some other way!"

Then suddenly I forgot myself and thought of my stern brave old dad. What under the sun was he going to do?

That week he mortgaged our house on the Heights for five thousanddollars. With this he paid off all his debts and put the balance in thebank. Then from the big dock company he got a job in his own warehouseat a hundred dollars a month. 

"Kind of 'em, " he said gruffly. He was sixty-five years old. They wereeven kind enough to add to that a job for me. I sat at the desk next tohis and I was paid ten dollars a week. 

Sue let the servants go, hired one green German girl and said she knewshe could run the house on a hundred and twenty dollars a month. But theAugust bills went over that, so we drew money out of the bank. My fatherhad bronchitis that week. We managed to keep him in bed for three days, but then he struggled up and dressed and went back to his desk in thewarehouse. 

"Keep your eye on him down there, " said Sue. "He's so terribly feeble. "

"This can't go on, " I told her. 

I must make more than ten dollars a week. Again I sent out some of mysketches, again the magazines sent them back. I went to a newspaperoffice, but there an ironical office boy, with the aid of the cityeditor, made me feel that reporting was not in my line. What other workcould I find to do? How much time did I have? How long was my fathergoing to last? I watched his face and our bank account. I studied the"want ads" in the press. But the more I studied the smaller I felt, forthis was one of the years of depression. "Two Hundred Thousand In NewYork Idle, " I read in a headline. Here was literature that gripped!

"I guess I'll stay right where I am. It's safer, " I thought anxiously. "Perhaps if I work hard enough they'll give me a raise at Christmas. When Dad was my age he kept two sets of books, one by day and the otherat night. How can I make my evenings pay?"

I took long walks in Brooklyn and picked up night work here and there. It was monotonous clerical work, and being slow at figures I was oftenat it till midnight. Very late one evening, while making out bills in ahardware store, I suddenly came to a customer whose initials were J. K. It started me thinking of Joe Kramer and our last long talk--about hay. 

"So this is hay, " I told myself. "How long will it take me to get a haymind, back here by this damned harbor?"

CHAPTER IV

Then Sue began to take me in hand. From the subdued and weary girl thatI had found when I came home, in the last few weeks she had blossomedout. The color had come into her cheeks, a new animation into her voice, a resolute brightness into her eyes. 

"This thing has got to stop, Billy, " she said determinedly. "This househas been like a tomb for months, you and Dad are so gloomy and tiredyou're sights. He needs a change, and so do you. You're getting into alittle rut and throwing away your chance to write. You need friends whoare writers, you need a lot of fresh ideas to tone you up. There'splenty of money in writing. And I need a change myself. I can't standthis house any longer. After all, I've got my own life to live. I'mgoing to get a job before long. In the meantime I'm going to see myfriends. And what's more, I'm going to have them here to the house---just as often as they'll come! Let's brighten things up a little!"

I looked at her with interest. Here was _another_ sister of mine--risenout of her sorrow and eager to live, and talking of running our lives aswell, of curing us both by large, firm doses of "fresh ideas, " while sheherself looked around for a job that would help her to "live her ownlife. "

"Look here, Sue, " I argued vaguely. "You don't want to take a job----"

"I certainly do----"

"But you can't! Dad wouldn't hear to it!"

"He'll have to--when I've found it. No poor feeble old man supportingme, thank you--quite probably no man at all--ever! But you needn'tworry. I won't take any old job that comes along. And I won't botherDad till I've found just what I really want--something I can grow in. "

"That's right, take it easy, " I said. 

"Where have you been!" I thought as I watched her. It came over me as adistinct surprise that Sue had been in all sorts of places and had beenmaking all sorts of friends, had been having ambitions and dreams of herown--all the time I had been having mine. Most older brothers, Isuppose, at some time or another have felt this same bewilderment. "Lookhere, Sis, " they wonder gravely, "where in thunder have you been?"

I took a keen interest in her now. In the evenings when I wasn't outworking we had long talks about our lives, which to my satisfactionbecame almost entirely talks about _her_ life, her needs, her growth. Her delight in herself, her intensity over plans for herself, herenthusiasm for all the new "movements, " reforms and ideas that she hadheard of God-knows-where and felt she must gather into herself to expandherself--it was wonderful! She was like that chap from Detroit, thatwould-be perfect all-round man. But Sue was so much less solemn aboutit, one minute in art and the next in social settlements, so littlehampered by ever putting through what she planned. 

"In short, a woman, " I thought sagely. 

I felt I knew a lot about women, although I had had no more intimatetalks since that affair in Paris. I had felt that would last me forquite a while. But here was something perfectly safe. A sister, decentbut far from dull, well stocked with all the feminine points and onlytoo glad to be confidential. She wanted to study for the stage! Ofcourse that was the kind of thing that Dad and I would stop darnedquick. Still--I could see Sue on the stage. She was not at all like me. I was middling small, with a square jaw, snub nose and sandy hair. Suewas tall and easy moving, with an abundance of soft brown hair worn lowover large and irregular features. She had fascinating eyes. She couldsprawl on a rug or a sofa as lazy and indolent as you please--all buther eyes, they were always doing something or other, letting this out orkeeping that back, practicing on me!

"Oh, yes, she'll marry soon enough, " I thought. "This talk of a job forlife is a joke. "

Some nights I would listen to her for hours. It was so good to come backto life, to feel younger than my worries, to forget for a little whilethat stark heavy certainty that poor old Dad would soon be a burden inspite of himself, and that with a family on my hands I'd have to spendthe best years of my life slaving for a little hay. 

I took the same delight in her friends. 

Starting with her classmates in a Brooklyn high school, most of whomwere working over in New York, Sue had followed in their trail, and atsettlements, in studios and in girl bachelor flats she had picked up anamazing assortment of friends. "Radicals, " they called themselves. Nothing was too wild or new for these friends of Sue's to jump into--andwhat was more, to tie themselves to by a regular job in some queerirregular office. "Votes for Women" was just starting up, and one ofthis group, a stenographer in a suffragette office, had been in thefirst small parade. Another, a stout florid youth who wrote poems formagazines, had paraded bravely in her wake. Here were two girls wholived in a tenement, did their own cooking and pushed East Sideinvestigations that they said would soon "shake up the town. " There wereseveral rising muckrakers, too, some of whom did free work on the sidefor socialist papers. There was one real socialist, a painter, who had ared membership card in his pocket to prove that he belonged to "theParty. " Others were spreading music and art and dramatics through thetenements--new music, new art and new dramatics. One young husband andwife, intensely in love with one another, were working together nightand day for easier divorces which would put an end to the old-fashionedhome. 

These people seemed to me to be laughing at a different old thing everytime. But when they weren't laughing they were scowling, over some newattack upon life--and when they did that they were laughable. At leastso they were to me. Not that I minded attacking things, I had doneplenty of that myself in Paris. But how different we had been backthere. We, too, had thrown old creeds to the winds, but with how muchmore finesse and art. And there had been a large remoteness about it. Each one had tossed his far-away country into the cosmopolitan pot, ourtalk had been on a world-wide scale. But this crude crowd, except foroccasional mental flights, kept all its attention, its laughs and itsjeers, its attacks and exposures centered on this one mammoth town, against which as a background they seemed the merest pigmies. Threelittle muckrakers loomed against Wall Street, one small, scoffingsuffragette against a hundred and eighty thousand solid stolid Brooklynwives. They had posed themselves so absurdly close to the world ofthings as they are. 

And they were in such a rush about their work. Over there in Paris, withall our smashing of idols, we had at least held fast to our one greatgoddess of art, we had slaved like dogs at the hard daily labor ofhonestly learning our various crafts. But here they stopped for nothingat all. The magazine writers were "tearing off copy, " the painters weresimply "slapping it down. " One of them told me he "painted the realstuff right out of life"--dashed it off with one hand, so to speak, while he shook his fist at the town with the other. Everyone wanted tosee something done--and done damn quick--about this, that or the other. 

My artist's eyes surveyed this group and twinkled with amused surprise. But I could sit by the hour and listen to their talk. I found it mightyrefreshing, after those bills in the hardware shop, that monotonousmartyr feeling of mine and those worries down by the harbor. 

But I felt the harbor always there, slowly closing in on my father, wholooked older day by day, slowly bringing things to a crisis. In thegarden behind our house on warm September evenings when these pigmiesgathered to chatter reforms, the harbor hooted at their little plans asit had hooted at my own. One evening, I remember, when the talk hadwaxed hot and loud in favor of labor unions and strikes, Sue left thegroup and with a friend strolled to the lower end of the garden. There Isaw them peer over the edge and listen to the drunken stokers singing inthe barrooms deep under all these flower beds and all this adventurouschatter of ours. I thought of the years I had spent with Sam--and Sue, too, seemed to me to be having a spree. Poor kid, what a jolt she wouldget some day. She called me "our dreamer imported from France. " But Iwas far from dreaming. 

Presently the harbor just opened one of its big eyes and sent up by amessenger a little grim reality. 

A Russian revolutionist had appeared among us with a letter to Sue fromJoe Kramer. Joe, I found to my surprise, had seen quite a little of Sueover here while I had been in Paris--and from the various ships andhotels that had been his "home" of late, he had written her now andthen. Through him Sue had joined a society known as "The Friends ofRussian Freedom, " and Joe wrote now from Moscow urging her to "stir upthe crowd and lick this fellow into shape to talk at big meetings andraise some cash. He has the real goods, " Joe added. "All he needs is theEnglish language and a few points about making it yellow. If handledright he'll be a scream. "

He was handled right and he was a scream. Three months later he finisheda tour that had netted over ten thousand dollars. Now to buy guns andship them to Russia--where in the awful poverty bequeathed to them bythe war with Japan, a bitter people was still fighting hard to make anend of autocracy. 

"I think I can help you, Puss, " said Dad. 

I looked at him with interest. I knew he had been as tickled as I bythese astonishing friends of hers. "Revolooters, " he called them. He wasa great favorite with the girls. 

"I once knew a man in a business way who dealt in guns, " he explained toSue. "He shipped some to Bolivia from my dock. I'll have him up to meetyour friend. "

So this messenger from the harbor, a keen lean man of business, gave onehour of his time to the problem in which the Russian dreamer had beenabsorbed for fifteen years. And the hour made the fifteen years lookdecidedly dreamy. 

"Guns for Russia, eh?" he said. "How'll you get 'em into your country?Where's your frontier weakest? You don't know? Then I'll tell you. " Andthe man of business did. "Now what kind of guns do you want? You hadn'tthought? Well, my friend, you want Mausers. They happen to be cheap justnow in Vienna. You should have looked into that before you traipsed wayover here. You can get 'em there for three twenty apiece--they droppedthree cents last Tuesday. "

The dreamer dreamed hard and fast for a moment. 

"Then, " he cried triumphantly, "wit' ten t'ousand dollairs I can buyover t'ree t'ousand guns!"

The gunman's look was patient. 

"Don't you want to shoot 'em off?" he inquired. "Because if you doyou'll need ammunition. You ought to have a thousand rounds, which willcome to a little over three times the actual cost of the gunsthemselves. You see when you shoot off a gun at an army you want to haveplenty of cartridges or else be ready to run like hell. 

"On second thought, " he added, "I advise you to give up the Mausers andgo in for Springfields over here--old ones--you can get 'em cheap. They're no good at over a mile, but for the first few months yourfellahs will be lucky if they hit a man at a hundred yards. And there'sone good point about Springfields, they make a devil of a noise--andthat's all you need for a starter, noise enough to break into headlinesall over the world as a 'Brave Little Rebel Army. ' If you can do that, and the word goes around on the quiet that you're using Americanrifles--well, there's a kind of a sentiment in our trade--you'll find usall behind you. We'll even _lose_ money. We're a queer bunch. "

"But wait!" cried the Russian. "Dere ees a trouble! Your tr-reaty wit'Russia! Have you not a tr-reaty which makes it forbidden to sell to meguns?"

Again that look of patience:

"Yes, General, we have a tr-reaty. But we'll ship your guns as grandpianos to Naples, from there by slow boat down to Brazil and then up tothe Baltic, where they'll arrive with their pedigrees lost. Our agentwill be there ahead, he'll have found a customhouse man he can fix, he'll cable us where--and when those fifty pianos are landed the saidofficial will open the box marked twenty-two. It'll take him over anhour to do it, the boards will be nailed so cussedly tight. And he'llfind a real piano inside. Then he'll look at the other forty-nine cratesand say, 'Oh, Hell!' in Russian. Then they'll go on to wherever you want'em--and you'll revolute. But don't forget that what you need most isthe livest press agent you can find. I've got to go now. Think it over. And if you want to do business with me come to my office to-morrow atten. "

The man of business left us. And while the dreamer talked like mad andfinally decided that as Mausers were "shoot farther guns" he had bettergo to Vienna, I watched the twinkle in Dad's gray eyes and thought ofthe cool contempt in his friend's. And from being amused I became rathersore. For, after all, this little Russian cuss had risked his life forfifteen years and expected to lose it shortly. (As a matter of fact, hewas stood up against a wall and shot the following April. ) Why make himlook so small?

Was there nothing under the heavens that this infernal harbor didn'tknow all about, and "do business with" so thoroughly that it couldalways smile?

CHAPTER V

As I drudged on down there in the warehouse, my bitterness became anobsession. I even talked about it to Sue. 

"Oh, Billy, you make me tired, " she said. "Here I've taken the troubleto bring to the house every magazine writer I know. And they're allready to help you break in--but you won't write, you won't even try!"

"How do you know I haven't tried?" I retorted hotly. "But I'm workingall day as it is--and four nights a week besides. And the other threenights, when I try to think of the kind of thing that I could sell tothe magazines--well, I simply can't do it, that's all--it's not my wayof writing!"

"Then your way is just plain morbid, " she said, "and it's about time youdropped it. " She seemed to get a sudden idea. "I know the person _you_ought to meet----"

"Do you? What's his name?" I inquired. 

"Eleanore Dillon, " she answered. I looked up at her with a start. 

"Eleanore Dillon? Is she still around?"

I hadn't thought of that girl in years. 

"She is--and she's just what you need, " said Sue, with that know-it-allsmile of hers. Her head was now cocked a bit to one side. "Your littlefriend of long ago, " she added sympathetically. I eyed Sue for a moment. I did not care at all for her tone. 

"What do I need _her_ for?" I asked. 

"To talk to you of the harbor, of course--that's her especial line thesedays. "

"The harbor?" I demanded. "That girl?"

"Yes--the harbor, that girl. " Sue seemed to be having quite a good time. My jaw set tight. 

"What does she do down there?" I asked. 

"She worships her father. Don't you remember? An engineer. He's doing abig piece of work on the harbor and Eleanore is wrapped up in his work, she's a beautiful case of how a fond parent can literally swallow up hischild. There used to be nothing whatever that Eleanore Dillon wasn'tgoing to do in life. Don't you remember, when she was small, that littledetermined air she had in the way she went at every game? Well, she greweven more like that. From school she went to college and worked herselfto a frazzle. Then she broke down and had to drop out, and now thatshe's strong again she's changed. She used to go in for everything. Nowshe goes in for nothing at all except her father and his work. Shethinks we're all a lot of young fools. "

"Oh, now, Sue, " I put in derisively. "You people fools? How could she?"

"You'll see, " my sister sweetly replied, "for she'll probably thinkyou're another. She detests morbid people, they're not her kind. But ifshe'll give you a talking to it may do you a lot of good. "

 * * * * *

She did give me a talking to and it did do me a lot of good, althoughwhen I came to think of it I found she had barely talked at all. 

She wasn't the sort who liked to talk, she was just as quiet as before. When she arrived rather late one evening and Sue brought her out on theverandah into a group of those radical friends who were a committee forsomething or other, after the general greetings were over she settledback in a corner with the air of one who likes just to listen to people, no matter whether they're fools or not. But as I watched her I decidedshe did not consider these people fools. That quiet smile that came onher face showed a comfortable curiosity and now and then a gleam ofamusement, but no contempt whatever. She seemed a girl so well pleasedwith her life that she could be pleased with the world besides and keepher eyes open for all there was in it. Although she was still rathersmall and still demurely feminine, with the same grave sweetness in hereyes, that same enchanting freshness about everything she wore, shestruck me at once as having changed, as having grown tremendously, ashaving somehow filled herself deep with a quiet abundant vitality. "Where have _you_ been, " I wondered. 

There came a loud blast from the harbor. At once I saw her turn in herchair and look down to the point below where a river boat was justleaving her slip, sweeping silently out of the darkness into the moonlitwater. My curiosity deepened. Where _had_ she been, and what was shedoing, what queer kind of a girl was this? I took a seat beside her. 

"Don't you remember me?" I asked. She turned her head with a quietsmile. 

"Of course I do, " she answered. Her low voice had a frankly intimatetone. "I did the moment I saw you. Besides, Sue told me about you. "

"She's been telling me quite a lot about _you_. "

"Has she? What?"

"That you know all about the harbor these days. "

"Sue's wonderful, " Eleanore murmured. "She's so sure her friends knoweverything. "

"Let's stick to the harbor. "

"All right, let's. I know enough about it to like it. Sue says you knowenough to hate it. I wonder which of us knows more. "

"I do. "

"How do you know you do?"

"Because I've been here longer, " I said. "I've hated it for twenty oddyears. "

She looked at me with interest. Her eyes were not at all like Sue's. Sue's eyes were always wrapped up in herself; Eleanore's in somebodyelse. They were as intimate as her voice. 

"Don't you remember the evening when you took me down to the docks?" sheasked. 

"I do--very well, " I said. 

"And do you mean to tell me you didn't like the harbor then?"

"I do--I hated the harbor then. I was scared to death that Sam and hisgang would appear around the end of a car. "

"Who was Sam?" she asked me. "He sounds like a very dreadful small boy. "

Soon she had me telling her of Sam and his gang and the harbor ofthrills, from the time of old Belle and the Condor. 

"I was a toy piano, " I said. "And the harbor was a giant who played onme till I rattled inside. We had a big spree together. "

"Not a very healthy spree, was it?" she said quietly, turning hergray-blue eyes on mine. For some reason we suddenly smiled at eachother. "You're a good deal like your father--aren't you?" she said. "Thesame nice twinkle in your eyes. Please go on. What did the harbor do toyou next?"

I thought all at once of the August day when she had lain, a girl oftwelve, in the fragrant meadow beside me. And as then, so now, thedrunken woman's image rose for an instant in my mind. 

"It wiped the thrills all out, " I said abruptly. I told how the placegrew harsh and bare, how I could always feel it there strippingeverything naked like itself, and how finally when later in Paris I feltI had shaken it off for life, it had now suddenly jerked me back, let mesee what my father had really been, and had then repeated its same oldtrick, closing in on his great idea and making it look like an old man'shobby, crowding him out and handing us grimly two dull little jobs--oneto live on and one to die on. 

"It's getting monotonous, " I ended. 

While I talked she had been watching it, now a bustling ferry crossing, now a tug with a string of barges working up against the tide. 

"How do you know it's so bad for you to be brought back from Paris?" sheasked me, without looking around. 

"Have you ever been in Paris?"

"Yes--and I want to go again. But I don't believe it will ever feel asreal to me as this place does. And I shouldn't think it would to you. Because you were born here, weren't you--and you've been so close to itmost of the time that you're all mixed into it, aren't you? I meanyou've got your roots here. Why don't you write about _them_ for awhile?"

"What?"

"Your roots. "

She turned and again her eyes met mine, and again for some reason orother we smiled. 

"All right, " I assented gravely, "I'll buy a hoe and start right in. "

"That's it, hoe yourself all up. Get as far down as you can remember. Dig up Belle and Sam, and Sue and your mother and father. Then take ahoe to Paris and find out why you loved it so, and why you hate theharbor. Be sure you get all the hate there is, it makes such interestingreading. Besides, it may be just what you need--it may take the hate allout of your system. "

"Who'll print it?" I demanded. 

"Oh, some magazine, " she said. 

"Do you think this kind of thing would interest their readers?"

"It would interest _me_----"

"Thank you. I'll tell the editors that. "

"You'll do no such thing, " she said severely. "You'll tell the magazineeditors, please, that I'm only one of thousands of girls who aregetting sick and tired of the happy, cheery little tales they print forour special benefit. It's just about time they got over the habit ofthinking of us as sweet, young things and gave us some roots we can growon. "

Another modern girl, I thought. 

"Do you, too, want to vote?" I asked her, with a fine, indulgent irony. 

"Some day I do, " she answered. And then she added with placid scorn, "When I've learned all the political wisdom that _you_ have to teachme. " And as if that were a good place to stop, she rose from her seat. 

"The others seem to have left us, " she said. "I think I'd better begoing home. "

"Wait a minute, please, " I cried. "When am I going to hear aboutyou--and your side of this dismal body of water?"

She looked back at me serenely. 

"Wait till you've got yours all written down, " she replied. "You seemine might only mix you up. Mine is so much pleasanter. Good night, " sheadded softly. 

CHAPTER VI

Until late that night, and again the next day at my desk down in thewarehouse, my thoughts kept drifting back to our talk. With a glow ofsurprise I found I remembered not only every word she had said, but thetones of her voice as she said it, the changing expressions on her faceand in her smiling gray-blue eyes. Her picture rose so vividly at timesit was uncanny. 

"What do you think of her?" asked Sue. 

"Mighty little, " I replied. I did not care to discuss her with Sue, forI had not liked Sue's tone at all. 

But how little I'd learned about Eleanor's life. Where did she live? Ididn't know. When I had hinted at coming to see her she had smilinglyput me off. What was this pleasant harbor of hers? "Wait till you've gotyours all written down, " she had said, and had told me nothing whatever. Yes, I thought disgustedly, I was quite a smart young man. Here I hadspent two years in Paris learning how to draw people out. What had shelet me draw out of her? What hadn't I let her draw out of me? I wonderedhow much I had told that girl. 

For some reason, in the next few days, my thoughts drifted about withastonishing ease and made prodigious journeys. I roved far back to mychildhood, and there the most tempting incidents rose, and solemn littlethoughts and terrors, hopes and plans, some I was proud of, some mightyashamed of. Roots, roots, up they came, as though they'd just beenwaiting, down there deep inside of me, for that girl and her hoeing. 

Presently, just to get rid of them all, I began writing some of themdown. And again I was surprised to find that I was in fine writingtrim. The words seemed to come of themselves from my pen and linethemselves up triumphantly into scenes of amazing vividness. At least sothey looked to me. How good it felt to be at it again. Often up in myroom at night I kept on working till nearly dawn. I was getting onfamously now. 

 * * * * *

And so now, as was his habit, Joe Kramer came crashing into my life andas usual put a stop to my work. 

Having just landed from Russia, he had "breezed over" to our house, hadhad a talk with Sue downstairs and had then come up to my room tosurprise me--just as I had a good firm grip on one of my most entrancingroots. 

"Hello, Bill, " he cried. "What are you up to?"

"Hello, J. K. How are you?"

I knew that I ought to be genial, and for a few moments I did my best. Iwent through all the motions. I grabbed his hand, I smiled, I talked, Itold him I was tickled to death, I even tried pounding him on the back. But it was quite useless. 

"Kid, " he said with that grin of his, "you're up to something idealisticand don't want to be disturbed. But I'm here and it can't be helped. Soout with it--what have you gone and done?"

And he jerked my story out of me. 

"All right, " he declared, "this has got to stop!"

"I knew it, " I said. I had known it the minute he came in the room. 

"You've got to throw up your ten-dollar job, quit working all night onstuff that won't sell, and come on a paper and make some real money. "

"I can't do it, " I snapped. 

"You can, " said J. K. 

"But I tell you I tried! I went to a paper----"

"You'll go to a dozen before I get through!"

"J. K. --I won't do it"

"Kid--you will!"

And he kept at me night after night. He was working for a New York papernow as a special correspondent. He had a talk with his editor and got mea chance to go on as a "cub" and write about weddings, describing thecostume of the bride. At least it was a starter, he said, and would leadto divorces later on, and from there I might be promoted to graft. Hetalked to Sue and my father about it, persuading them both to take hisside. Day by day the pressure increased. I set my young jaw doggedly andkept on writing about my roots. 

"Look here, " said Joe one evening. "Your sister tells me you're sore onthe harbor. Then have a look at this. " And he showed me a newspaperclipping headed, "Padrone System Under the Dumps. "

"Well, what about it?" I asked him. 

"What about it? My God! Here's a chance to show up the harbor on one ofits ugliest, rottenest ideas! A dump is a pier that sticks out in theriver. We'll go there at night, get down underneath it and look at thekids--Dago child-slaves working like hell. You say that weddings are notin your line--all right, here's just the opposite--stuff that'll makeyour women readers sit right up and sob out aloud! I don't care fortear-jerkers myself, " he added. "But even tear-jerkers are better thanArt. "

"All right, " I muttered savagely, "let's go and get a tear-jerker towrite!"

If I must write of this modern harbor, at least it was some satisfactionto write about one of its ugliest sides. 

We went the next night. 

Joe had chosen a dump which jutted out from the Manhattan side of theriver just about opposite our house. A huge, long, shadowy pile of cityrefuse of all kinds, we caught the sour breath of it as we drew near inthe darkness. There was not a sound nor a light. We climbed down onto agreenish beam that ran along by the side underneath, about a foot fromthe water, and cautiously working our way outward for a hundred yardsor more, we stopped abruptly and drew back. 

For just before us under the dump was a cave with walls of papers andrags. A lantern hung from overhead, swung gently in the raw salt breeze, and by its light we could see a half dozen swarthy small boys. Five wereintent on a game of dice, whispering fiercely while they played. Theirboss lay asleep in a corner. The sixth, the smallest of them all, satsmoking in the mouth of the cave, his knees drawn up and his big dilatedblack eyes roving hungrily out over the water. All at once around theend of the pier, a dark, tall shadow like a spook swept silently outbefore him. He sprang back and fervently crossed himself, then grinnedand drew on his cigarette hard. For the shadow was only a scow with aderrick. The imp continued his watching. 

"Now, " said J. K. A few minutes later back on shore, "you want to gettheir hours and wages. You want to look up the fire law about lightedcigarettes and a lantern----"

"Oh, damn your fire law, " I growled. "I want to know where that kid withthe cigarette was born, and what he thinks of the harbor!" Joe gave meone of his cheerful grins. 

"You might get his views on the tariff, " he said. 

"Look here, J. K. , " I implored him; "go home. Go on home and leave mealone. It's all right, I'm glad you brought me here--darned good of you, and I'll get a story. Only for God's sake leave me alone!"

"Sure, " said Joe. "Only don't try to talk to those little Guineys. Theirboss wouldn't let 'em say a word and you'd lose your chance of watching'em. Make it a kind of a mystery story. "

And a mystery story I made it. 

Where had he been a year ago, this imp who had fervently crossedhimself? In Naples, Rome or Venice, or poking his toes into the dust ofa street in some dull little town in the hills? What great condor ofto-day had picked him up and dropped him here? How did it look to him?What did he feel?

I came back to the dump night after night, and writing blindly in thedark I tried to jot down what he saw--gigantic shapes and shadows, somemotionless, some rushing by with their dim spectral little lights, andover all the great arch of the Bridge rearing over half the sky. Thelantern in the cave behind threw a patch of light on the water below, and across that patch from under the pier where the water was slapping, slapping, there came an endless bobbing procession--a whisky bottle, abroken toy horse, a bit of a letter, a pink satin slipper, a dirty whiteglove--things tossed out of people's lives. On and on they came. And Iknew there were miles of black water like this all covered with tinyprocessions like this moving slowly out with the ebb tide, out from theturbulent city toward the silent ocean. One night the watchman on thedump showed me a heavy paper bag with what would have been a babyinside. Where had it come from? He didn't know. Tossed out of somewoman's life, in a day it would be far out on the ocean, bobbing, bobbing with the rest. Water from here to Naples, water from here toheathen lands. Just here a patch of light from a lantern. That imp fromItaly looking down--into something immense and dark and unknown. 

He was having a spree with the harbor, as I had had when as small as he. I saw him watch the older boys and listen thrilled to their wonderfultalk--as once I, too, had been thrilled by Sam. I watched him over agame of dice, quarreling, scowling, grabbing at pennies, slapped by someone, whimpering, then eagerly getting back to the game. It was "craps, "I had played it with Sam and the gang. One night he dropped a cigarettestill lighted into the rags and was given a blow by his boss thatknocked him into a corner. But presently he crawled cautiously forth, and again with both hands hugging his knees he sat and watched theharbor. What a big spree for a little boy. 

I put my own childhood into this imp, into him my first feelings towardthis place. And so I came again to my roots. How the memories rose upnow--the fascinations and terrors that I, too, had felt before somethingimmense and dark and unknown. 

Thank heaven J. K. Had given me up and gone to Colorado--so I was leftto work in peace. I called my sketch "A Patch of Light, " and sent it toa magazine. It came back with a note explaining that, while this was afine little thing in its way, its way wasn't theirs, it was neither anarticle full of facts nor a story full of romance. In short, I toldmyself savagely, it was neither hay nor tears! Again it went forth andagain back it came. Then Sue gave it to one of her writer friends whosaid he knew just the place for it. 

"No, you don't, " I thought drearily. "Nobody knows--in this wholedamnable desolate land. "

But Sue's friend sold my story--for twenty-two dollars and fifty cents!And he said that the editor wanted some more!

It was curious, from my window that night, what a different harbor I sawbelow. Ugly still? Of course it was. But what a _rich mine_ of uglinessfor the pen of a rising young author like me!

CHAPTER VII

Now for something bigger. I would have a whack at the place by day. Nomystery now, just ugliness. I would show it up in broad daylight, bringing out every detail in the glare. I would do this by comparing itto the harbor of long ago, and the snowy white sails of my father'syouth. 

His youth was gone. A thick-set and gray-headed old figure, he bent overhis desk by my side, putting up a fierce, silent fight for his strength, and now slowly getting enough of it back to keep him at his job as aclerk in what had been his warehouse. Only once, coming suddenly intothe room, I found him settled deep down in his chair, heavy, inert, hiscigar gone out, staring vacantly out of the window. 

The sails were gone. Down there at his dock, where even in days that Icould remember the tall clippers had lain for weeks, I saw now a Germanwhaleback. She had slipped in but three days before and was alreadysnorting to get away. She was black and she wallowed deep, and she hadan enormous bulging belly into which I descended one day and exploredits metallic compartments that echoed to the deafening din of someriveters at work on her sides. Though short and stout, she was ninethousand tons. Hideous, she was practical, as practical as a factory. Inher the romance of the sea was buried and choked in smoke and steam, ingrime, dirt, noise and a regular haste. One morning as her din increasedand the black, sooty breath of her came drifting in through our window, my father rose abruptly and slammed the window down. 

"The damn sea hog!" he muttered. 

Gone, too, were the American sailors. All races of men on the earth butours seemed gathered around this hog of the sea. From barges filled withher cargo, the stuff was being heaved up on the dock by a lot of Irishbargemen. Italian dockers rolled it across to this German ship, and ondeck a Jap under-officer was bossing a Coolie crew. These Coolies weredwarfs with big white teeth and stooping, round little shoulders. Theyhad strange, nervous faces, long and narrow with high cheek bones and noforeheads at all to speak of. Their black eyes gleamed. Back and forththey scurried to the sound of that guttural Japanese voice. 

"The cheapest sea labor there is, " growled Dad. "Good-by to Yankeesailors. "

The Old East with its riches was no longer here. For what were theseCoolies doing? Handling silks and spices? Oh, no. They were hoisting andletting down into the hold an automobile from Dayton, Ohio, bound forNew South Wales. Gone were the figs and almonds, the indigo, ivory, tortoise shells. Into the brand-new ledgers over which my father worked, he was entering such items as barbed wire, boilers, car wheels and gasengines, baby carriages, kegs of paint. I reveled in the commonplacestuff, contrasting it vividly in my mind with the starlit ocean roads itwould travel, the picturesque places it would help spoil. 

I filled in the scene with all its details, the more accurate, glaringand real the better--the brand-new towering skyline risen of late onManhattan, the new steel bridge, an ugly one this, and all the modernsteam craft, tugs, river boats, Sound steamers, each one of them pantingand spewing up smoke. I sat there like a stenographer and took down theharbor's dictation, noting the rasping tones of its voice, recordingeagerly all its smells. And all this and more that I gathered, Ifocussed on the sea hog. 

And then toward the end of a winter's day we looked out of our windowand saw her "sail. " She sailed in a nervous, worrying haste to thegrunts and shrieks of a lot of steam winches. Up rattled her anchor, outshe waddled, tugs puffing their smoke and steam in her face. She didn'tdepart. Who ever heard of a hog departing? She just went. There were nosongs, no last good-byes--except from a man in his shirt sleeves whocalled from the deck to a man on the pier, "So long, Mac, see you nextSpring, " and then went into the factory. 

When the work of the day was over, I went down into the dock shed. Myfather's old place was at peace for a time, the desecration done with. She was empty, dark and silent. In her long, inward-sloping walls theeight wide sliding doors were closed. Only through the dusty skylightshere and there fell great masses of soft light. Big bunches of canvashung from above, ropes dangled out of the shadows. And there were hugerhythmic creakings that made you feel the ocean still here, an old oceanunder an old, old dock. The place grew creepy with its past. 

"Faint, spicy odors, " I jotted down, as I stood there in the dimness, "ghosts of long ago--low echoes of old chanties sung by Yankeesailors--romance--mystery----"

I broke off writing and drew back behind a crate. My father had enteredthe dock shed and was coming slowly up the dock. Presently I saw himstop and look into the shadows around him. I saw a frown come on hisface, I saw his features tighten. So he stood for some moments. Then heturned and walked quickly out. A lump had risen in my throat, for Ithought I knew what he had seen. 

"The Phantom Ship" became my title. A fine contrast to the sea hog, Ithought. I asked Dad endless questions at night about the old days notonly here, but all up along the coast of New England, and hungrily Ilistened while he glorified the rich life and color of those seaporttowns now gray, those wharves now rotting and covered with moss. Heglorified the spacious homes of the men who had ordered their captainsto search the Far East for the rugs and the curtains, the chairs and thetables, the dishes, the vase, the silks and the laces, the silver andgold and precious stones with which those audacious old houses werestored. He glorified the ships themselves. From the quarter decks of ourclippers, those marvels of cleanliness and speed, he told how thosemiraculous captains had issued their orders to Yankee sailors, brawny, deep-chested, keen-eyed and strong-limbed. He told what perils they hadfaced far out on the Atlantic--"the Roaring Forties" those waters werecalled!

"Yes, boy, in those days ships had men!"

In my room I eagerly wrote it all down and added what I myself couldremember. Here from my bedroom window I tried to see what I had seen asa boy, the immaculate white of the tall sails, the fresh blue and greenof the dancing waves. Oh, I was romancing finely those nights! And therecame no Blessed Damozel to say to me gruffly, "Couches-toi. Il esttard. "

When the sketch was completed at last I gave it to my father to read andthen went out for a long walk. It was nearly midnight when I returned, but he was still reading. He cleared his throat. 

"Son, " he said very huskily, "this is a strong piece of work!" His eyeswere moist as they moved rapidly down the page. He looked up with ajerk. "Who'll print it?" he asked. 

"I wish I knew, Dad----"

I mailed it that night to a magazine. In the next two weeks my father'ssuspense was even deeper than my own, though he tried hard to joke aboutit, calling me "Pendennis. " One day in his office chair he wheeled witha nervous sharpness, and I could feel his eyes fixed on the envelopewhich the postman had just thrown on my desk. God help me, it was heavyand long, it had my manuscript inside. Dismally I searched for a letter. Still I could feel those anxious eyes. 

"Hold on!" I cried. "They've taken it! All they want me to do is to cutit down!"

"Then do it!" My radiant father snarled. "It ought to be cut to half itslength! That's the way with beginners, a mass of details! Some day maybeyou'll learn to write!"

I smiled happily back. He came suddenly over and gripped my hand. 

"My boy, I'm glad, I'm very glad! I'm"--he cleared his throat and wentback to his desk and tried to scowl over what he was doing. 

"Dad. "

"Huh?"

"They say they'll give me a hundred dollars. Pretty good for one month'swork. "

"Huh. "

"And they want me to do some more on the harbor. They say it's a newfield. Never been touched. "

"Then touch it, " he said gruffly. "Leave me alone. I'm busy. "

But coming in late after luncheon that day, I found him reading theeditor's letter. 

"Boy, " he said that evening, "you ought to read Thackeray for style, andWashington Irving, and see what a whippersnapper you are. Work--work! Ifyour mother were only alive she could help you!"

And just before bedtime, taking a bottle of beer with my pipe, I caughthis disapproving eye. 

"Worst thing you can put in your stomach, " he growled. He said thisregularly each night, and added, "Why can't you keep up your health foryour work?"

His own health had improved astonishingly. 

"It's the winter air that has done it, " he said. 

CHAPTER VIII

My work, as my father saw it now, was to write "strong, practicalarticles" presenting the respective merits of free ships, ship subsidiesand discriminating tariffs to build up our mercantile marine. 

But I was growing tired these days of my father's idea, his miracle andhis endless talk of the past. On walks along the waterfront he wouldtreat it all like a graveyard. But while he pointed out the tombs I feltthe swift approach of Spring. It was March, and in a crude way of itsown the harbor was expressing the season--in warm, salty breezes, theodor of fish and the smell of tar on the bottoms of boats beingoverhauled for the Summer. Our Italian dockers sang at their work, andone day the dock was a bright-hued mass of strawberries and early Springflowers landed by a boat from the South. Everywhere things seemedstarting--starting like myself. 

I had given up my warehouse job, and free at last from that tedious deskto which I once thought I was tied for years, with two sketches sold andideas for others, so many others, rising daily in my mind, I went aboutwatching the life of the port. Poor Dad. He was old. Could I help beingyoung?

Without exactly meaning to, I drew away from my father to Sue. We feltourselves vividly young in that house. We quarreled intensely over herfriends and were pleased with ourselves in the process. We had longtalks about ourselves. Sue let me talk to her by the hour about my workand my ideas, while she sat and thought about her own. 

"If you're planning to write up the harbor, " she said sleepily late onenight, "you ought to cruise around a bit in Eleanore Dillon's motorboat. "

I looked at her in astonishment. 

"Does that girl run a motor boat?"

"Her father's. " Sue yawned and gave me a curious smile. "I'll see if Ican't arrange it, " she said. And about a week later she told me, "Eleanore's coming to take us out to-night. "

Some of Sue's friends came to supper that evening and later we all wentdown to the dock. There was no moon but the stars were out and the nightwas still, the slip was dark and empty. Suddenly with a rush and a swirla motor boat rounded the end of the pier, turned sharply in and cameshooting toward us. A boiling of water, she seemed to rear back, thendrifted unconcernedly in to the bottom of the ladder. 

In the small circle of light down there I saw Eleanore Dillon smilingup. She sat at her wheel, a trim figure in white--a white Jersey, something red at her throat and a soft white hat crushed a bit to oneside. Beneath it the breeze played tricks with her hair. 

We scrambled down into the cock-pit. It was a deep, cozy little place, with the wide open doors of a cabin in front, in which I caught aglimpse of two bunks, a table, a tiny electric cooking stove and ashaded reading light over the one small easy chair. There were impudentcurtains of blue at the port holes. There was a shelf of books andanother of blue and white cups and saucers and dishes. And what wasthat? A monkey crouching under the table, paws clutching the twoenormous brass buttons on the gay blue jacket he wore, eyes watching usangrily as he chattered. 

"Buttons, " commanded his mistress, "come out here this minute and stopyour noise. There's nothing for you to be peevish about, the water'slike glass. When it's rough, " she explained, "he gets fearfully seasick. Come here now, pass the cigarettes. " And this her Buttons proceeded todo--very grumpily. 

Then as a small, quiet hand pulled a lever, I felt a leap of powerbeneath me, the boat careened as she turned, then righted, there was asecond pull on the lever, another surging leap of speed, and as werushed out on the river now up rose her bow higher and higher, a hugewhite wave on either side. The spray dashed in our faces. Everyone begantalking excitedly. Only the Buttons kept his monkey eyes fixed anxiouslyon his captain's face while he clasped the pit of his stomach. 

"Oh, Buttons, don't be such a coward, " she said. "I tell you it's smoothand you won't be sick! Go out there and stop being silly!"

Slowly and with elaborate caution the monkey crept forward over thecabin. For a moment up at the bow he paused, a ridiculous littledark-jacketed figure between the two white crests of our waves. Thenwith a spring he was up to his place on the top of the light, and therewith gay gesticulations he greeted every vessel we passed. 

I had taken a seat by Eleanore's side. She was driving her boat witheyes straight ahead. Now and then she would close them, draw in a deepbreath of the rough salt air, and smile contentedly to herself. After atime I heard her voice, low and intimate as before:

"Finished up that hideous harbor of yours?"

"No, " I answered hungrily, "I think I've just begun. " I caught a gleamin her eyes. 

"You'll be out of your rut in a moment, " she said. 

"What do you mean, my rut?" I demanded. 

"The East River, Stupid--wait and see. "

From the little East River corner I'd lived in, we sped far out on theUpper Bay, a rushing black speck on a dim expanse, with dark, emptyfields of water around us, long, luminous paths stretching off to theshores, where the lights twinkled low for miles and miles and there weresudden bursts of flame from distant blast furnace fires. 

"Tell me what you've been writing about this hideous place, " she said. 

"Who said it was hideous at night? Of course if you wrap it all up inthe dark, so that you can see none of its sea hogs----"

"What's a sea hog?"

"A sea hog is a wallowing boat with a long, black, heavy snout. " Andmustering all that was left of my hatred I plunged into my picture. "Thewhole place is like that, " I ended. "Full of smoke and dirt anddisorder, everything rushing and jamming together. That's how it looksto me in the daytime!"

"Are you sure it does--still?"

"I am, " I answered firmly. "And I'm going to write it just as it looks. "

"Then look back of you, " she suggested. 

Behind us, at the tip of Manhattan, the tall buildings had all meltedtogether into one tremendous mass, with only a pin point of light hereand there, a place of shadowy turrets and walls, like some mediævalfortress. Out of it, in contrast to its dimness, rose a garish tower oflights that seemed to be keeping a vigilant watch over all the darkwaters, the ships and the docks. The harbor of big companies. 

"My father works up in that tower, " she said. "He can see the wholeharbor spread out below. But he keeps coming down to see it all close, and I've steered him up close to everything in it. You've no idea howmuch there is. " She threw me a glance of pitying scorn. "There are overseven hundred miles of waterfront in this small port, and I'm not goingto have you trudging around and getting lost and tired and cross andworking off your grudge in your writing. You come with me some afternoonand I'll do what I can to open your eyes. "

"Please do it, " I said quickly. 

 * * * * *

She took me down, to the sea gate at the end of a warm, still, foggyday. There in the deepening twilight we drifted without a sign of aworld around us--till in from the ocean there came a deep billow, thenanother and another, and as our small craft darted off to one side agigantic gray shadow loomed through the fog with four black towers ofsmoke overhead, lights gleaming from a thousand eyes. 

"Another sea hog, " murmured a voice. 

"I said in the daytime, " I replied. 

We went out on another afternoon to watch the fisherman fleets at theirwork or scudding before a strong wind home with a great, round, radiantsun behind. She showed me fishers in the air, lonely fish hawks one byone flying in the late afternoon back to their nests on the AtlanticHighlands. And far out on the Lower Bay she knew where to stir up wholearmies of gulls, till there seemed to be thousands wheeling in air withthe bright sunshine on all the wings. The sunshine, too, with the helpof the breeze, stole glinting deep into her hair. She watched me out ofhalf-closed eyes. 

"Is this daylight enough?" she demanded. 

"This is simply absurd, " I answered. "You know very well that thisharbor is ugly in places----"

"Only in places. That's better, " she said. 

"In a great _many_ places, " I rejoined. "Please take me to Bayonne someday--at two p. M. , " I added. 

It seemed a good, safe, unmysterious hour, and as we neared the placenext day my hopes mounted high, for there was a leaden sky overhead andloathsome blotches and streaks of oil on the gray water around us--whileahead on the Jersey shore, from two chimneys that rose halfway to theclouds, poured two foul, sluggish columns of smoke. 

"Still New York harbor, I believe?" I inquired maliciously. But Eleanorewas smiling. "What's the joke?" I demanded. 

"The southwest wind, " she softly replied. I could feel it coming as shespoke. As I watched I saw it take that sky and tear jagged rifts in itfor the sun, and then as those two columns of smoke began twisting andwrithing like monster snakes they took on purple and greenish hues andthrew ghostly reflections of themselves down on the oily water aroundus, filled with blue and gold shimmerings now. 

"What a strange, wonderful purple, " murmured a quiet voice by my side. 

Stubbornly I resisted conversion. I wanted more afternoons in that boat. 

"Now it's blowing that oily odor our way, " I declared in suddenannoyance. "I no sooner get to enjoying myself when along comes one ofthe smells of this place. And where's the beauty in _them_? Can you showme? Here's a place that should be a great storehouse of pure fresh airfor the city to breathe, and----"

"Oh, hush up!" said Eleanore. 

But I doggedly found other blemishes here--swamps, railroad yards andsooty tracks that filled the waterfront for miles where there shouldhave been parks and boulevards. At the same time I assumed the tone ofone who tries to be fair and patient. Whenever she showed me some newbeauty in water or sky I took great pains to look at it well. When anangry little squall of wind came ruffling over the sunny waves insweeping bands of deep, soft blues, I gazed and gazed at its wonder asthough I could never have enough. And so gazing I spied floating there asodden old mattress, a fleet of tin cans. And I said that it seemed anunhealthy thing to dump all our refuse so close to the city. 

"They don't!" she retorted indignantly. "They take it out miles beyondthe Hook!"

In short, I considered myself mighty clever. Day by day I prolonged myconversion, holding obstinately back--while Eleanore revealed to me themiracles worked by the sunset here, and by the clouds, the winds, thetides, the very smoke and the ships themselves, all playing weirdtricks on each other. Slowly the crude glory of it stole upon meunawares--until to my own intense surprise the harbor now became for mea breathing, heaving, gleaming thing filled deep with the rush and thevigor of life. A thing no longer sinister, crushing down on a man's oldage--but strangely deeply stirring. 

"Look out, my friend, " I warned myself. "This is no harbor you'refalling in love with. "

CHAPTER IX

Although at such lucid moments I would sometimes go a-soaring up intothe most dazzling dreams, more often I would plunge in gloom. ForEleanore's dreams and all her thoughts seemed centered on her father. From each corner of that watery world, no matter how far we wandered, the high tower from which he looked down on it all would suddenly loomabove the horizon. Over the dreariest marshes it peeped and into all ourtalk he came. A marsh was a place that he was to transform, oily odorswere things he would sweep away. For every abuse that I could discoverher father was working out some cure. With a whole corps of engineersdrafting his dreams into practicable plans, there was no end to thethings he could do. 

"Here is a girl, " I told myself, "so selfishly wrapped up in her fathershe hasn't a thought for anyone else. She's using me to boom his work, as she has doubtless used writers before me and will use dozens morewhen I'm gone. No doubt she would like to have _dozens of me_ sittingright here beside her now! It's not at all a romantic thought, but thinkhow she could use me then!" And I would glower at her. 

But it is a lonely desolate job to sit and glower at a girl who appearsso placidly unaware of the fact that you are glowering. And slowlyemerging from my gloom I would wonder about this love that was in her. At times when she talked she made me feel small. My own love for mymother, how utterly selfish it had been. Here was a passion so deep andreal it made her almost forget I was there, asking questions, hungrilywatching her, trying to learn about her life. 

"While I was in school, " she said, in that low deliberate voice of hers, "my father and I went abroad every summer. We tramped in the Alps forweeks at a time, keeping way off the beaten paths to watch the work ofthe Swiss engineers. One of them was a woman. We saw the bridge she'dbuilt over a gorge, and I became deeply excited. Until then I had neverhad any idea that I could go into my father's work. But now I wonderedif I could. That winter in school I really worked. I was dreadfully dullat mathematics, but I wouldn't see it. I made up my mind to go toCornell for the course on engineering. I worked like a slave for twoyears to get ready and just succeeded in getting in. 

"Then toward the middle of Freshman year I realized that I was becominga quite absurdly solemn young grind. There were over a hundred girls incollege but I had made barely any friends. And so I firmly resolved tobe gay. I made a regular business of it and worked my way into clubs anddances, hunting for the girls I liked and scheming to make them like metoo. By May I was way behind in my work. I tried to make up, I begancramming every night until one or two in the morning. And I passed myexaminations--but that summer I broke down. My father had to drop hiswork and take me abroad for an operation, and by the time we got back hehad lost nearly six months of his time. I decided that as an engineer Iwas a dismal failure. I'd much better give my father a chance. 

"So when he took up this work in New York I spent all my time on our newapartment. I loved fussing with it, I shopped like a bee, and this keptme busy all Autumn. Besides I was going about with Sue. She had managedme long ago at school and I was glad to let her now, for I was huntingfor new ideas. But Sue put me on so many committees that by Spring mynerves were in shreds, and again for weeks I was flat on my back. 

"One evening then--when my father came home and sat down by mybedside--it came over me all of a sudden--the wonderful quiet strengthin his hand, in the look of his eyes. 

"'Where have you been?' I asked him. 

"'Down on the harbor, ' he told me. Since eight in the morning he'd beenin a launch exploring it all. I shut my eyes--my wretched eyelidsquivering--and I made him describe the whole day's trip while I tried tosee it all in my mind. Soon I was feeling deliciously quiet. 'I'm goingdown there too, ' I thought. 

"By the next evening I had the idea for this boat. When I told him hewas delighted, and we both grew excited over the plans--which he drew bymy bed, I made him draw dozens. At last it was built and lay at itsdock, and I packed all I needed into a trunk and we came down in a taxi. It was a lovely May afternoon and we had a beautiful ride up the Hudson. And from then on through the Summer I hardly went ashore at all, I knewif I did it would spoil it all. 

"Every night we slept on board in those two cozy little bunks. I learnedto cook here. Soon I was able to run the boat and even to help my fathera little. I knew just enough about his work to go places for him andsave his time. I'd forgotten I ever had any nerves, for I felt Ibelonged to something now that got way down to the roots of things. Doyou see what I mean? This harbor isn't like a hotel, or an evening gownor Weber and Fields. I love pretty gowns, and my father and I wouldn'tmiss Weber and Fields for worlds. But they're all on top, this is downat the bottom, it's one of those deep places that seem to make the worldgo 'round. It's right where the ocean bumps into the land. You can getyour roots here, you can feel you are real. 

"You see what my father is doing is to take this whole harbor and studyit hard--not just the water, the shipping and docks, for when he says'the port of New York' he means all the railroads too--and he'sstudying how they all come in and why it is that everything has becomeso frightfully snarled. A lot of big shipping men are behind him, andhe's to draw up a plan for it all which they're going to give to thecity to use, to make this port what it's got to be, the very first inthe ocean world. It's one of those slow tremendous pieces of work, itwill take years to carry it out and hundreds of millions of dollars. Myfather thinks there's hardly a chance that he'll ever live to see it alldone. I know he will, I'm sure he will, he's the kind of a man who keepshimself young. But whether he really sees it or not, or gets any credit, he doesn't care. 

"That's the kind of a person my father is, " Eleanore added softly. 

 * * * * *

"My father wants to meet you, " she told me toward the end of June, atone of those times when she let the boat drift while we had longabsorbing talks. "He has read that thing you wrote about the German seahog, and he thinks it's awfully well done. "

"That's good of him, " I said gruffly. 

Somehow or other it always makes me uncomfortable when people talk aboutmy work. When they criticize I am annoyed and when they praise I amuneasy. What do they know about it? They spent an hour reading what ittook me weeks to write. They don't know what I _tried_ to do, nor dothey care, they haven't time. I never feel so cut off from people, soutterly alone in the world, as when some benevolent person says, "Iliked that little story of yours. " Instantly I shut up like a clam. 

"I liked it too, " said Eleanore. 

"Did you?" I asked delightedly. Far from retiring into my shell, Iwanted at once to open up and make her feel how much I had missed inthat crude effort. Soon she had me talking about it. And while I talkedon eagerly, I tried to guess from her questions whether she'd read itmore than once. Finally I guessed she had. And, glancing at her now andthen, I wondered how much she could ever know about me or I abouther--really know. And the intimacy I saw ahead loomed radiant andboundless. I strained every nerve to show her myself, to show her thevery best of myself. 

But then I heard her ask me, "Wouldn't you like to talk to my father?"

Here was a fine end to it all. 

"I don't know, " I answered gloomily. I could see already those engineereyes moving amusedly down my pages. I could see her watching his faceand getting to feel as he did about me. "What good would it do?" Iadded. 

"What good would it do?" Her sharply offended tone brought me back witha jerk to try to explain. 

"Don't you see what I mean!" I asked eagerly. "Why should a man as busyas he is waste his time on a kid like me? After all that you've told meabout him, I feel sometimes as though all the writers on earth don'tcount any more, because all the really big things are being done by menlike your father. "

"That's much better, " said Eleanore. "Only of course it isn't true. Ifyou poor little writers want to get big and really count, " she went onserenely, "all you have to do is to write about my father. "

"I'll begin the minute you say so, " I told her. 

"Then it's arranged, " said my companion, with an exceedingly comfortablesigh. "We've taken a cottage up on the Sound for the summer, " shecontinued. "And we're moving up to-morrow. Suppose you come up overSunday. "

"Thanks. I'd love to, " I replied. 

"So she's to be away for months, " I added dismally to myself. "No moreof these long afternoons. "

CHAPTER X

On the following Saturday, when I met her boat at an East River dock, atonce I felt a difference. We were waiting for her father. The momentsdragged and I grew glum, try as I would to be pleasant. 

"Here he is, " she said at last. 

Tall, rather lank and loosely clothed, Dillon was coming down the pierin easy leisurely fashion, talking to a man by his side. His facelighted up when he saw us. 

"Just a minute, " he said. 

His voice was low but it had a peculiar carrying quality. His ruggedface was deeply lined, and I noticed a little gray in his hair. He wassmiling straight down into the eyes of his companion, a much youngerman, thin and poorly dressed, whose face looked drawn and tired. 

"When I was your age, " I heard Dillon remark, "I got into just the samekind of a snarl. " And he began telling about it. A frightfully technicalstory it was, full of engineer slang that was Greek to me, but I saw theyounger man listen absorbed, his thin lips parting in a smile. I saw himcome out from under his worries, I saw his chief watching him, pullinghim out. 

"All right, Jim, " he ended. "See what you can do. "

"Say, Chief, just you forget this, will you?" the other said intensely. "Don't give it a thought. It's go'n' to be done!"

"It's forgotten. "

Another easy smile at his man, and then Eleanore's father turned to us. I could feel him casually take me in. 

"The thing I liked most in that sketch of yours, " he was saying a fewminutes later, when our boat was on her course, "was the way you listedthat Dutchman's cargo. 'One baby carriage--to Lahore. ' A very largepicture in five little words. I can see that Hindu baby now--beingwheeled in its carriage to Crocodile Park and wondering where the devilthis queer new wagon came from. I've been nosing around these docks foryears, but I missed that part of 'em right along--that human part--tillyou came along with your neat writer's trick. 'One baby carriage--toLahore. ' You ought to be proud, young man, at your age to have writtenone sentence so long that it goes half way around the world. "

As he talked in that half bantering tone I tried to feel cross, but itwouldn't do. That low voice and those gray eyes were not making fun ofme, they were making friends with me, they were so kindly, curious, soopen and sincere. Soon he had lighted a cigar and was telling Eleanoregravely just how she ought to run her boat. 

"Why be so busy about it?" he asked. 

"Oh, you be quiet!" she replied, as she sharply spun her wheel. Like anautomobile in a crowded street our craft was lurching its way in shortdashes in and out of the rush hour traffic. The narrow East River wasblack with boats. Ferries, tugs and steamers seemed to be coming at usfrom every side. Now with a leap we would be off, then abruptly churningthe water behind us we would hold back drifting, watching our chance foranother rush. Eleanore's face was glowing now, her hat was off, her neckwas tense--and her blue-gray eyes, wide open, fixed on the chaos ahead, were shining with excitement. Now and then a long curling wisp of herhair would get in her eyes and savagely she would blow it back. And herlank quiet father puffed his cigar, with his gray eyes restfully on her. "The serenity of her, " he murmured to me. 

"Oh, now, my dear, " he said gently, as we careened to starboard, "_that_was a slip. I can't say I would have done it like that. "

"Have you ever run a boat in your life?" came back the fierce rejoinder. 

"No, " said Dillon calmly, "I can't exactly say I have. Still"--herelapsed and enjoyed his cigar. 

Just a short time after this, we had the only ugly moment that I hadbeen through in all our rides. A huge Sound steamer was ahead. Dashingclose along under her port, we came suddenly out before her and met atug whose fool of a captain had made a rush to cross her bow. It was oneof those sickening instants when you see nothing at all to do. ButEleanore saw. A quick jerk on her lever, a swift spinning of her wheel, and with a leap we were right under the steamer's bow. It missed ourstern by a foot as it passed and then we were safe on the other side. She made a low sound, in a moment her face went deathly white, her eyesshut and she nearly let go the wheel. But then, her slight formtightening, slowly opening her eyes she turned toward her father. 

"Now?" he asked very softly. And there passed a look between them. 

"All right, " she breathed, and turned back to her wheel. And for sometime very little was said. 

But I understood her love for him now. These two were such companions asI had never seen before. And though I myself felt quite out of it all, this did not bother me in the least. For watching her father and feelingthe abounding reserve of force deep under his quiet, I told myself thathere was a big man, the first really big one I'd ever come close to. AndI was so eager to know him and see just what he was like inside, that Ihad no room for myself or his daughter--because I wanted to write himup. What a weird, curious feeling it is, this passion for writing uppeople you meet. 

On the remainder of the ride, and at supper that night on the porch oftheir cottage, a little house perched on a rocky point directlyoverlooking the water, I did my best to draw him out, and Eleanoreseemed quite ready to help me. And later, when he went inside to dosome work, I went on with the same eagerness, obliterating my own smallself, exploring this feeling of hers for him and his dream of a futureharbor. 

Soon she was doing all the talking, her voice growing lower and moreintense as she tried to make me feel all he meant when he said, "It'sgoing to be the first port in the world. " She told how up in his towerhe made you see the commerce of this whole mighty world of peaceconverging slowly on this port. She told of the night two years beforewhen he had come home "all shaken and queer" and had said to herhuskily, "Eleanore, child, at last it's sure. There's to be a PanamaCanal. " Of other nights when he didn't come home and at last she wentdown to his office to fetch him and found him at midnight there with hismen, "all working like mad and gay as larks!"

"When it comes to millions of dollars for his work, " she said, "he's sovery keen that he makes you feel like a little child. But when it'smerely a question of dollars for himself to live on, he's a perfectbaby. He won't look at a bill, he always turns them over to me. He won'tenter a shop, he won't go to a tailor. One ready-made clothing store hashis measure and twice a year I order his clothes and then have a fightto get him to wear them. He never knows what he eats except steak. Onenight when we had been having steak six evenings in succession I triedchicken for a change. At first he didn't know what was wrong. Every nowand then he would seem to notice something. 'What's the matter with me?'I could see he was asking. Then all at once he had it. 'My dear, ' hesaid, very coaxingly, 'could we have a nice juicy porterhouse steak forsupper to-morrow evening?'"

From these and many other details slowly I got the feel of my man. Closer, more intimate he grew. All the work I had done in Paris, questioning, drawing out my friends until I could feel their innerselves coming out of them into me, was counting now. I had never done sowell before, I was sliding my questions in just right, very cautiouslyturning her memory this way and that on her father's life, watching hergrow more and more unaware of my presence beside her, although now I hadher bending toward me, eagerly, close. 

"And she thinks she's doing it all by herself, " I thought exultingly. 

But as there came a pause in our talk, she turned slightly in her seatand glanced in through the window into the lighted room behind. Andinstantly her expression changed. A swift look of surprise, a puzzledfrown and a moment of hard thinking--and then with a murmured excuse sherose and went away quickly into the house. In the meantime I hadfollowed her look. Sitting close by the lamp, in the room inside, Dillonwas staring straight at this spot where I was invisible in the dark. Andhe looked old--and rigid, as though he'd been staring like that for sometime. I caught just a glimpse. Then he heard her step and turned hastilyback to his work. I looked at my watch. It was after twelve. 

"And he never knew it was all about him, " I said to myself disgustedly. "I hope this doesn't spoil it all. "

 * * * * *

But that is precisely what it did. The next morning she was coollypolite and Dillon determinedly genial. I could feel a silent strugglebetween them as to what should be done with me. She wanted to get rid ofme, he wanted to keep us together. Gone was all his quiet strength, inits place was an anxious friendliness. He made me tell him what I waswriting. He said he was glad that his press agent daughter had taken me'round and opened my eyes. And as soon as she got through with me hehimself would do all he could. 

"I'm through with him, " said Eleanore cheerfully. "I've shown him all Ipossibly can. What you need now, " she added, turning to me in her oldeasy manner, "is to watch the harbor all by yourself and get your ownfeelings about it. You might begin at the North River docks. "

I spent a wretched afternoon. All my plans for my work and my lifeassumed the most gray and desolate hues. Eleanore was taking a nap. Atlast she came down and gave me some tea. 

"May I come out and see you now and then?" I asked her very humbly. "Itwould help me so much to talk over my work. "

"No, " she answered kindly, "I think you'd better not. "

"Why not?" I blurted. "What have I done?"

She hesitated, then looked at me squarely. 

"You've made my absurd young father, " she said, "think that he is nolonger young. "

I lost just a moment in admiration. There wasn't one girl in a hundredwho would have come out with it like that. Then I seized my chance. 

"Why, it's perfectly idiotic, " I cried. "Here's a man so big he's agiant beside me, so full of some queer magnetic force that on the way uphere in the boat he made me forget that I was there. I forgot that _you_were there, " I threw in, and I caught just the sign of a gleam in hereyes. "No longer young?" I continued. "That man will be young when youand I are blinking in our dull old age! He's the biggest man I ever met!And I want to know him, I want to know how he thinks and feels, I wantthat more than anything else! And now you come between us!"

"Are you real?" asked Eleanore. I looked back unflinchingly. 

"Just you try me, " I retorted. 

"No, " she replied with a quiet smile. 

She said good-by to me that night. 

 * * * * *

The next morning at seven o'clock I met her father down at the boat. Wehad a quick swim together and then climbed on board. And the nextminute, with a sober old seaman called "Captain Arty" at the wheel, theboat was speeding for New York while we dressed and cooked andbreakfasted. 

"This was Eleanore's idea, " Dillon said. "It gets me to town by nineo'clock and takes me back each day at five. So I hardly miss a night athome. .. . Did she ever tell you, " he went on, "about the first week shespent in this boat?"

"She said it was a wonderful time. "

"It was a nightmare, " Dillon said. I looked at him quickly:

"What do you mean?"

"Her fight for her strength. She looked like a ghost--with a stiff upperlip. She fainted twice. But she wouldn't give up. She said she knew shecould do it if I'd only let her stick it out. She has quite a will, thatdaughter of mine, " he added quietly. 

"You know, " he went on, "that idea of hers that you tackle the NorthRiver piers isn't bad. Why don't you put in the whole Summer there, watching the big liners? I won't ask you to come to my office now, forour work is still in that early stage where we don't want anypublicity. " I could feel his casual glance, and I wondered whether henoticed my sharp disappointment. "When we are ready, " he resumed, "we'resure to be flooded with writers. I hope there'll be one man in the lotwho'll stick to the work for a year or more, a man with a kind of apassion in him for the thing we're trying to do. There's nothing wewouldn't do for that man. I hope he's going to be you. "

At once a vision opened of work with Eleanore's father, of long talkswith Eleanore. 

"I'll try to get ready for it, " I said. 

"You've made a fine start, " he continued, "and I think you're going tomake good. But first let's see what you'll do by yourself. Get your ownview of this place as it is to-day before we talk about plans forto-morrow. And don't hurry. Take your time. "

As he said this quietly, I suddenly awoke to the fact that we weretearing down the river at a perfectly gorgeous speed. The river wascrowding with traffic ahead, all was a rushing chaos of life and we wererushing worst of all. And yet we did not seem to hurry. Old Captain Artysat at the wheel with the most resigned patient look in his eyes. Anddrawing lazily on his cigar Dillon was watching a new line of wharves. 

"You know I've found, " he was saying, "the only way to live in this ageand get any pleasure out of life is to always take more time than youneed for every job you tackle. I'm taking at least seven years to thisjob. I might possibly do it as well in five, but I'd miss half the funof it all, I'd be glaring at separate parts of it, each one as it camealong, and I'd never have time to see it full size and let it carry me'round the world--to that baby carriage, for instance, over in Lahore. "

We were rounding the Battery now. And in that sparkling morning light, with billowy waves of sea green all around us, sudden snowy clouds ofspray, we watched for a moment the skyscraper group, the homes of theBig Companies. The sunshine was reflected from thousands of dazzlingwindow eyes, little streamers of steam were flung out gaily overhead, streets suddenly opened to our view, narrow cuts revealing the depthsbelow. And there came to our ears a deep humming. 

"That's the brains of it all, " said Dillon. "In all you'll see whileexploring the wharves you'll find some string that leads back here. Andyou don't want to let that worry you. Let the muckrakers worry and planall they please for a sea-gate and a nation that's to run with itsbrains removed. You want to remember it can't be done. You want to lookharder and harder--until you find out for yourself that there are men upthere on Wall Street without whose brains no big thing can be done inthis country. I'm working under their orders and some day I hope you'llbe doing the same. For they don't need _less_ publicity but _more_. "

He left me at the Battery, and as I stood looking after him I foundmyself feeling somewhat dazed. A question flashed into my mind. Whatwould Joe Kramer say to this? I remembered what he had said to me once:"Tell Wall Street to get off the roof. " Well, that was _his_ view. Herewas another. And this man was certainly just as sincere and decidedlymore wise and sane, altogether a larger size. 

Besides, I was in love with his daughter. 

CHAPTER XI

On the Manhattan side of the North River, from Twenty-third Street downfor a mile there stretches a deafening region of cobblestones andasphalt over which trucks by thousands go clattering each day. There arelong lines of freight cars here and snorting locomotives. Along theshore side are many saloons, a few cheap decent little hotels and somethat are far from decent. And along the water side is a solid line ofdocksheds. Their front is one unbroken wall of sheet iron and concrete. 

I came up against this wall. Over the top I could see here and there thegreat round funnels of the ships, but at every passenger doorway and atevery wide freight entrance I found a sign, "No Visitors Admitted, " andunder the sign a watchman who would ungraciously take a cigar and thengo right on being a watchman. There seemed no way to get inside. Theold-fashioned mystery of the sea was replaced by the inscrutability ofwhat some muckrakers called "The Pool. "

"Don't hurry, " Eleanore's father had said. All very well, but I neededmoney. While I had been making with Eleanore those long and delightfulexplorations of the harbor and ourselves, at home my father's bankaccount had been steadily dwindling, and all that I had been able tomake had gone into expenses. 

"I don't know what to do, " said Sue, alone with me that evening. "Thebutcher says he won't wait any longer. He has simply got to be paid thisweek. "

"I'll see what I can do, " I said. 

I came back to my new hunting ground and all night long I prowledabout. I sipped large schooners of beer at bars, listening to the burlydockers crowded close around me. I watched the waterfront, empty andstill, with acres of spectral wagons and trucks and here and there alantern. I had a long talk with a broken old bum who lay on his back inan empty truck looking up at the stars and spun me yarns of his life asa cook on ships all up and down the world. Now and again in the smallwee hours I met hurrying groups of men, women and children poorly clad, and following them to one of the piers I heard the sleepy watchmangrowl, "Steerage passengers over there. " I saw the dawn break slowly andeverything around me grow bluish and unreal. I watched the teamsterscome tramping along leading horses, and harness them to the trucks. Iheard the first clatter of the day. I saw the figures of dockers appear, more and more, I saw some of them drift to the docks. Soon there werecrowds of thousands, and as stevedores there began bawling out names, gang after gang of men stepped forward, until at last the chosen throngswent marching in past the timekeepers. Hungrily I peered after them upthe long cavernous docksheds. "No Visitors Admitted. "

Then I went into a lunchroom for ham and eggs and a huge cup of coffee. I ate an enormous breakfast. On the floor beside me a cross and wearylooking old woman was scrubbing the dirty oil cloth there. But I myselffelt no weariness. While all was still vivid and fresh in my mind, sitting there I wrote down what I had seen. A magazine editor said itwould do. And so we paid the butcher. 

The same editor gave me a sweeping letter of introduction to all oceanliners. This I showed to a dock watchman, who directed me upstairs. Inthe office above I showed it to a clerk, who directed me to the docksuperintendent, who read it and told me to go downtown. I recalled whatDillon had said about strings. Here was string number one, I reflected, and I followed it down Manhattan into the tall buildings, only to beasked down there just what it was I wanted to know. 

"I don't want to know anything, " I replied. "I just want permission towatch the work. "

"We can't allow that, " was the answer of this harbor of big companies. 

At every pier that I approached I received about the same reply. At homeSue spoke of other bills. And now that I was in trouble, hard pressedfor money and groping my way about alone, I found myself missingEleanore to a most desperate degree. Her face, her smiling blue-grayeyes, kept rising in my mind, sometimes with memories and hopes thatpermeated my whole view both of the harbor and my work with a warm gladexpectant glow, but more often with no feeling at all but one ofsickening emptiness. She was not here. The only way to get back to herwas to make good with her father. And so I would not ask his aid or evengo to him for advice. Testing me, was he? All right, I would show him. 

And I returned to my editor, whom my intensity rather amused. 

"The joke of it is, " he said, "that they think down there you're amuckraker. "

"I'll be one soon if this keeps on. "

"But it won't, " he replied. "As soon as you've once broken in, and theysee it's a glory story you want, you can't imagine how nice they'll be. "

"I haven't broken in, " I said. 

"You will to-morrow, " he told me, "because Abner Bell will be with you. He's our star photographer. Wait till you see little Ab go to work. Theplace he can't get into hasn't been invented. Besides, " the editoradded, "Abner is just the sort of chap to take hold of an author fromParis and turn him into a writer. "

And this Abner Bell proceeded to do. He was a cheerful, rotund littleman with round simple eyes and a smile that went all over his face. 

"You see, " he said, when I met him the next day down at the docks, "youcan't ask a harbor to hold up her chin and look into your camera whileyou count. She's such a big fat noisy slob she wouldn't even hear you. You've got to run right at her and bark. "

"Look here, old man, " he was asking a watchman a few moments later. "What's the name of the superintendent on the next pier down the line!"

"Captain Townes. "

"Townes, Townes? Is that Bill Townes?"

"No, it's Ed. "

"I wonder what's become of Bill. All right, brother, much obliged. Seeyou again. " And he went on. 

"Say, " he asked the next watchman. "Is Eddy--I mean Captain--Townesupstairs?"

"Sure he is. Go right up. "

"Thank you. " Up we went to the office. "Captain Townes? Good-morning. "

"Well, sir, what can I do for you?" The captain was an Englishman with avoice as heavy and deep as his eyes. 

"Why, Captain, I'm sent here by the firm that's putting Peevey's ParisPerfume on the market out in the Middle West. They're going in heavy onads this Fall and I've got an order to hang around here until I can geta photo of one of your biggest liners. The idea is to run it as an ad, with a caption under it something like this: '_The Kaiser Wilhelm_reaching New York with twenty thousand bottles of Peevey's Best, directfrom Paris. '"

"_The Kaiser Wilhelm_, " said the captain ponderously, "is a German boat. She docks in Hoboken, my friend. "

"Of course she does, " said Abner. "And I can lug this heavy camera wayover there if you say so, and hand ten thousand dollars worth of freeads to a German line, stick up pictures of their boat in littledrugstore windows all up and down the Middle West. Do you know how totell me to go away?"

Captain Townes smiled heavily. 

"No, " he said, "I guess I don't. Here's a pass that'll give you the runof the dock. "

"Make it two, " said Abner, "and fix it so my friend and I can stickaround for quite a while. "

"You're a pretty good liar, " I told him as we went downstairs. 

"Oh, hell, " he answered modestly. "Let's go out on the porch and getcool. "

We went out on the open end of the pier and sat down on a wooden beamwhich Abner called a bulkhead. 

"If we don't begin calling things names, " he remarked, "we'll never getto feeling we're here. Let's just sit and feel for a while. "

"I've begun, " I replied. 

We sat in the shade of two wooden piles with the glare of a midsummersun all around us. The East River had been like a crowded creek comparedto this wide expanse of water slapping and gleaming out there in the sunwith smoke shadows chasing over it all. There was the rough odor ofsmoke in the air from craft of all kinds as they skurried about. Thehigh black bow of a Cunarder loomed at the end of the dock next ours. Far across the river the stout German liners lay at their berths--andthey did not look like sea hogs. What a change had come over the harborsince I had met that motorboat. How all the hogs had waddled away, andthe very smoke and the oil on the waves had taken on deep, vividhues--as I had seen through Eleanore's eyes. "What a strange wonderfulpurple, " her low voice seemed to murmur at my side. 

"She's going away from here, " said Ab. I started:

"Who is?"

"That Cunarder. Look at the smoke pour out of her stacks. Got acigarette about you?"

"No, " I answered gruffly. 

"Damn. "

In the slip on our other side a large freight boat was loading, and aherd of scows and barges were pressing close around her. These clumsycraft had cabins, and in some whole families lived. "Harbor Gypsies. " Agood title. I had paid the butcher, but the grocer was still waiting. SoI dismissed my motorboat and grimly turned to scows instead. Children bythe dozen were making friends from barge to barge. Dogs were all aboutus and they too were busy visiting. High up on the roof of a coallighter's cabin an impudent little skye-terrier kept barking at thesooty men who were shoveling down below. One of these from time to timewould lift his black face and good-humoredly call, "Oh, you go tohell"--which would drive the small dog into frenzies. Most of the bargeshad derrick masts, and all these masts were moving. They rose between meand the sky, bobbing, tossing and criss-crossing, filling the place withthe feeling of life, the unending, restless life of the sea. 

An ear-shattering roar broke in on it all. Our Cunarder was starting. Smoke belching black from her funnels, the monster was beginning tomove. 

But what was this woman doing close by us? Out of the cabin of a bargeshe had dragged a little rocking chair, and now she had brought out ababy, all dressed up in its Sunday best, and was rocking expectantly, watching the ship. Thundering to the harbor, the Cunarder now movedslowly out. As she swept into the river the end of the pier was revealedto our eyes all black with people waving. They waved until she was outin midstream. Then, as they began to turn away, one plumpmotherly-looking woman happened to glance toward us. 

"Why, the cute little baby, " we heard her exclaim. And the next minutehundreds of people were looking. The barge mother rocked serenely. 

Abner grabbed his camera and jumped nimbly down on the barge, where hetook the baby's picture, with the amused crowd for a background. 

"The kid's name, " he remarked on his return, "is Violetta Rosy. She wasborn at two a. M. At Pier Forty-nine. " He was silent for a moment andthen went on sententiously, "Think what it'll mean to her, through allthe storm and stress of life, to be able to look fondly back upon thedear old homestead. There's a punch to Violetta. Better run her in. "

"I will, " I said. 

"And that little thing of mine, " he queried modestly, "about the dearold homestead. "

"I've got it, " I replied. 

"I hand quite a few little things to writers, " Ab continued cheerfully. "If you'll just give me some idea of what it is you're looking for----"

"I'm looking for the punch, " I answered promptly. 

"Then we'll get on fine, " he said. "The editor got me worried some. Hesaid you'd trained in Paris. "

"Oh, that was only a starter, " I told him. 

Presently he went into the dockshed on his unending quest of "thepunch. " And left to myself I got thinking. What did Paris know about us?De Maupassant's methods wouldn't do here. I noticed two painters inoveralls at work on that large freighter. With long brooms that theyheld in both hands they were slapping a band of crude yellow paint alongher scarred and rusted side. That was what I needed, the broom! All atonce the harbor took hold of me hard. And exulting in its bigness, thebold raw splattering bigness of my native Yankee land, "Now for someglory stories, " I said. 

I went into the dockshed, and there I stayed right through until night, till my mind was limp and battered from the rush of new impressions. Forin this long sea station, under the blue arc-lights, in boxes, barrels, crates and bags, tumbling, banging, crashing, came the products of thismodern land. You could feel the pulse of a continent here. From thefactories, the mines and mills, the prairies and the forests, theplantations and the vineyards, there flowed a mighty tide ofthings--endlessly, both day and night--you could shut your eyes and seethe long brown lines of cars crawl eastward from all over the land, youcould see the stuff converging here to be gathered into coarse rope netsand swept up to the liners. The pulse beat fast and furious. In gangs atevery hatchway you saw men heaving, sweating, you heard them swearing, panting. That day they worked straight through the night. For the pulsekept beating, beating, and the ship must sail on time!

And now I too worked day and night. In the weeks that followed, AbnerBell came and went many times, but for me it was my entire life. Thoughsmall of build I was tough and hard, I had not been sick for a day inyears, and now I easily stood the strain. Day by day my story grew, myglory story of world trade. Watching, questioning, listening here, making notes, writing hasty sketches to help keep us going athome--slowly I could feel this place yielding up its inner self, itspunch and bigness, endless rush, its feeling of a nation young andpiling up prodigious wealth. From the customhouse came fabulous tales ofmillionaires ransacking the world. Rare old furniture, rugs andtapestries, paintings, jewels, gorgeous gowns poured in a dazzlingtorrent all that summer through the docks. One day on a Mediterraneanship, in their immaculate "stalls de luxe, " came two black Arab horses, glistening, quivering creatures, valued by the customhouse at twentythousand dollars each. And into the same ship that week, as though inpayment for these two, in dust and heavy smell of sweat I saw a thousandcattle driven, bellowing and lowing. 

I exulted in these symptoms of our crude and lusty youth. I watched mycountrymen going abroad. Not only through the Summer but straight oninto the Fall they came by tens of thousands out of the West, people whohad made some money and were going to blow it in, to buy things and tosee things, to learn things and to eat things. One day at noon, on theend of a dock, when the ship was already far out in midstream and allthe crashing music and cheers had died away, a meek old lady wiped hereyes and murmured very tearfully, "I suppose they'll be eating theirluncheon soon. " And then the loud voice of her daughter replied:

"Eat? Why, ma, God bless their hearts, they'll sit on that boat and eatall day!"

And I echoed her wish with a keen delight. God bless their hearts andstomachs. Oh, hungry vigorous Yankee land, so mightily young--eat on, eat on!

And the land ate on. 

 * * * * *

My work here rose to a climax a week or two before Christmas, when thenewest liner of them all pulled off a new world's record for speed. Withthe company's publicity man, who had become a friend of mine, I went onthe health officer's tug down the Bay to meet her, on the coldest, darkest night I've ever known on water. Shortly after nine o'clock thebig boat's light gleamed off the Hook and she bore down upon us. Shecame close, slowed down and towered by our side, weird as a ghost withsnow and ice in glimmering sheets on her steel sides. She did not stop. We caught a rope ladder and scrambled up, and at once we felt herspeeding on. 

And she was indeed a story that night. Bellowing hoarsely now in warningto all small craft to get out of her way, she was rushing into theharbor. Suddenly she slowed again, and three dark mail tugs rangedalongside, and through canvas chutes four thousand sacks of Christmasmail began to pour down while the ship moved on. Up her other side cameclimbing gangs of men who began to make ready her winches and open upher hatches. Now we were moving in close to the pier, with a whole fleetof tugs around us. Faint shouts rose in the zero night, toots and sharpwhistles. One of the gang-planks was down at last and two hundreddockers came up on the run. Off went the passengers and the luggage, reporters skurrying through the crowds. But the ship did not rest. Forshe was to sail again the next night. This was to be a world's recordfor speed!

All night long the work went on, and I watched it from a deck above, going in now and then for food and hot drinks. On her dock side, forward, Christmas boxes, bales and packages were being whipped up outof her hold to the rattle of her winches. One sharp whistle and up theyshot into the air till they swung some seventy feet above. Anotherwhistle and down they whirled into the dockshed far below from which ablaze of light poured up. At the same time she was coaling. Along theblack wall of her other side, as I peered over the rail above, I saw farbelow a row of barges crowded with Italians. Powerful lights swung overtheir heads in the freezing wind, swung above black coal heaps and thelapping water. It was an inferno of shifting lights and long leapingshadows. 

I watched till daylight blotted out the yellow glare of the lanterns. Then I went home to get some sleep. And late that night when I came backI found her almost ready to sail. 

Out of taxis and automobiles chugging down in front of the pier, thepassengers were pouring in. Many were in evening clothes, some just comefrom dinners and others from box parties. The theaters had just let out. The rich warm hues of the women's cloaks, the gay head dresses here andthere and the sparkling earrings, immaculate gloves and dainty wantonslippered feet, kept giving flashes of color to this dark freezing oceanplace. Most of these people went hurrying up into the warm, gorgeouscafé of the ship, which was run from a hotel in Paris. What had all thisto do with the sea?

"Come on, " said the genial press agent. "You're the company'sguest-to-night. "

And while we ate and drank and smoked, and the tables around us filledwith people whose ripples and bursts of laughter rose over theorchestra's festive throb, and corks kept popping everywhere, he told mewhere they were going, these gay revellers, for their Christmas Day--toLondon, Brussels, Berlin and Vienna, Paris, Nice, Monte Carlo, Algiers. 

"Now come with me, " he said at last, and he took me along warmpassageways to the row of cabins de luxe. 

First we looked into the Bridal Suite, to which one of the Pittsburghmakers of steel, having just divorced a homely old wife, was presentlyto bring his new bride, a ravishing young creature of musical comedyfame. They had been married that afternoon. A French maid was unpackingdainty shimmering little gowns, soft furry things and other things ofsilk and lace, and hanging them up in closets. It was a large room, andthere were other rooms adjoining and two big luxurious baths. The costof it all was four thousand dollars for the five days. There were tallmirrors and dressing tables, there were capacious easy chairs. Lowsubdued lights were here and there, and a thick rug was on the floor. Over in one corner was a huge double bed of cream colored wood with richsoft quilts upon it. Beside the bed in a pink satin cradle there lay atiny Pekinese dog. 

"Next, " he whispered. We peeped into the next stateroom, and theredivided from her neighbors by only one thin partition, a sober, wrinkledlittle old lady in black velvet sat quietly reading her Bible. Soon shewould be saying her prayers. 

"Next, " he whispered. And in the cabin on her other side we caught aglimpse of two jovial men playing cards in gay pajamas with a bottle ofScotch between them. 

"Next. " And as we went on down the row he gave me the names of anEnglish earl, a Jewish clothing merchant, a Minnesota ranchman, abanker's widow from Boston, a Tammany politician, a Catholic bishop fromBaltimore, a millionaire cheese maker from Troy and a mining king fromMontana. 

"How about that, " he asked at the end, "for an American row de luxe?"

"My God, it's great, " I whispered. 

"There's only one big question here, " he added. "Your long respectablepedigrees and your nice little Puritanical codes can all go toblazes--this big boat will throw 'em all overboard for you--if you cananswer, 'I've got the price. '"

CHAPTER XII

Meanwhile, in the late Autumn, Eleanore had come back to town. I had anote from her one day. 

"Come and tell me what you are writing, " she said. 

I went to see her that afternoon, and I was deeply excited. I had oftenfelt her by my side when I was watching the harbor life and as oftenbehind me while I wrote. We had had long talks together, absorbing talksabout ourselves. And though now in her easy welcome and through all hercheerful questions there was not a suggestion that we two had been orever would be anything but genial friends, this did not discourage me inthe least. No fellow, I thought, could be happy as I and have nothingbetter than friendship ahead. The Fates could never be so hard, forcertainly now they were smiling. 

Here was her apartment, just the place I had felt it would be, onlyinfinitely more attractive. High up above the Manhattan jungle, it wasquiet and sunny and charming here. From the low, wide living-roomwindows you could see miles out over the harbor where my work was goingso splendidly, and all around the room itself I saw what I was workingfor. Eleanore's touch was everywhere. An intimate, lovable feminine homewith man-sized views from its windows--just like Eleanore herself, fromwhom I found it difficult to keep my hungry eyes away. To that softbewildering hair of hers she had done something different--I couldn'ttell what, but I loved it. I loved the changing tones of her voice--Ihate monotonous voices. I watched the smiling lights in her eyes. Shewas at her small tea table now. Her motorboat, thank Heaven, was laidup for the winter, and I had her right here in a room, with nothing todo with her eyes but pay a decent amount of attention to me. Then bysome chance remark I learned that she had been reading what I wrote, almost all of it, in fact. And at the slight exclamation I made I sawher color slightly and bite her lip as though she were angry withherself for having let that secret out. 

"What do you want to write, " she asked, "when you get through with theharbor?"

"Fiction, " I said. "I want it so hard sometimes that it seems like along way ahead. It seems sometimes, " I added, "like a girl I'd fallen inlove with--but I couldn't even ask her--because I'm so infernallypoor. "

Over the tea cup at her lips Eleanore looked thoughtfully straight intoand through and behind my eyes. 

"Fiction is such a broad field, " she remarked. "What kind do you thinkyou're going to try?"

"I don't know, " I answered. "It still seems so far ahead. You see, Ihave no name at all, and this harbor at least is a good safe start. I'mafraid I'm rather a cautious sort. When I find what I want--and want sohard that it's the deepest part of me--I like to go slow. I'm afraid torisk losing it all--deciding my life one way or the other--by taking achance. " I made a restless movement. "I wasn't speaking of my work justthen, " I added gruffly. 

I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror back of Eleanore'schair. And I glared at myself for the fool that I was to have said allthat. I hadn't meant to--not in the least! What a paltry looking cuss Iwas--small, tough and wiry, hair sandy, eyes of no color at all, snubnose and a jaw shut tight as in pain. 

"You're a queer person, " said a voice. 

"I am, " I agreed forlornly. "I'm the queerest fellow I ever met. " Icaught a grim twinkle in my eyes. Thank God for a sense of humor. 

"Sometimes, " she went on, reflectively, "you seem to me as old as thehills--and again so young and obvious. I'm so sorry to hear you say thatyou weren't talking of your work. I like to hear men talk of theirwork. "

"I know you do, " I said hungrily. "And that's one of the reasons whyyou're going to mean so much some day--to somebody's work--and to hiswhole life. "

Why couldn't I stop? Had I gone insane? I rose and moved about the room. A low rippling laugh brought me back to my senses. 

"But how about _me_ and _my_ life?" she asked. "That ought to be thoughtof a little, you know. "

I came close beside her:

"Let me say this. Won't you? I'll promise never to say it again. Yourlife is going to be all right. It's going to be quite wonderful--you'llbe tremendously happy. I'm sure of that. It's not only the way youalways--look--it's the way you always think and feel. It's everythingabout you. "

She had looked down at her hands for a moment. Now she looked upsuddenly. 

"Thank you, " she said smiling, in a way that told me to smile too. Iobeyed. 

"I did that rather badly, didn't I, " I said. 

"No, you did that rather well. Especially the first part--I think Iliked that best of all--the part where you promised so solemnly thatyou'd never do it again. "

I went indignantly back to my chair. 

"Do you know, " I said, "I feel sometimes when I'm with you as though Iwere being managed! Absolutely managed!"

"I should think you wouldn't like that, " she replied. Her hands werepeacefully folded now and she looked at me serenely: "I should thinkyou'd rather manage yourself. "

I took the hint. From, that day on, each time I came to see her, Imanaged myself severely. And this apparently pleased her so much thatshe seemed no longer the least afraid to let me know her as well as Iliked. Her father, too, when I met him now and then in the evenings, wasmost kindly in his welcome. And as winter wore on, my hopes rose high. 

But one evening, after Dillon had read my story about the ChristmasBoat, he gave me a bitter disappointment. 

"I like it, " he said, as he handed it back. "It's a fine dramatic pieceof work. But it's only a starter here. To get any idea of our problemyou'll have to go all over the harbor. When you've done that for a fewmonths more, and I get back from my trip abroad, I'll be glad to helpyou. "

"You're going abroad?" I asked abruptly. 

"Next month, " he said, "with Eleanore. She seems to think I need arest. "

Back came the old feeling of emptiness. And gloomily at home that nightI wondered if it was because she knew she was leaving so soon that shehad been so intimate lately. How outrageous women are. 

CHAPTER XIII

They sailed the middle of March. 

It is easy to look back now and smile at my small desolate self as I wasin the months that followed. But at the time it was no smiling matter. Iwas intensely wretched and I had a right to be, for I could see nothingwhatever ahead but the most dire uncertainties. Did Eleanore really carefor me? I didn't know. When could I ask her? I didn't know. For whenwould I be earning enough to ask any girl to marry me? At present nearlyall I earned was swallowed up by expenses at home, and I knew that inall likelihood this drain would soon grow heavier. 

For we could not count much longer on my father's salary. Already I haddone my best to make him give up his position. He stubbornly resisted. 

"I'm strong as I ever was, " he declared, and he took great pains toprove it. He would sit down to dinner, his face heavy and gray withfatigue, but by a hard visible effort slowly he would throw it off, keenly questioning me about my work, more often quizzing me about it, orSue about her "revolooters. " He had a stock of these dry remarks and heused them over and over. When the same jokes came night after night weknew he was very tired. After dinner on such evenings, when I went withhim into his study to smoke, he would invariably settle back in hischair with the same loud "Ah!" of comfort, and he would follow this upas he lit his cigar with the most obvious grunts expressive of health toprove to me how strong he was. He was always grimly delighted when Ispent these evenings with him, but always before his cigar was out hishead would sink slowly over his book and soon he would be sound asleep. Then as I sat at my writing I would glance over from time to time. Icould tell when he was waking, and at once I would grow absorbed in mywork. Soon I would hear a slight snort of surprise, I would hear himstealthily feel for his book, and then presently out of the silence----

"This is a devilish good piece of writing, boy, " he would announceabruptly. "When _you_ learn to hold your reader like this I'll begin tothink you're a writer. "

Yes, my father was aging fast, I would soon be the only breadwinnerhere. Sue fought hard against this idea, she was still set on findingwork for herself, but each time she proposed it Dad would rise soindignantly, with such evident pain in his glaring old eyes, that shewould be forced to give up her plan. In such talks I supported him, andin return when we two were alone Sue would revenge herself on me by themost cutting comments on "this inane habit of looking at girls as fitfor nothing better than marriage. "

These comments, I was well aware, were aimed at my feeling for Eleanore, for whom Sue had no longer any good word but only a smiling derision. Her remarks were straight out of Bernard Shaw's most ribald works, andthey left me miserably wondering whether any man had ever loved in anyway that wasn't the curse or the joke of his life. Sue dwelt on thisglorious age of deep radical changes going on, she spoke of Joe Kramer, with whom she still corresponded, and enlarged on the wonderful freedomhe had to go anywhere at any time. Thank a merciful heaven _he_ wasn'ttied down! And if Joe would only keep his head and not marry, not get ahuge family on his hands----

Sue made me perfectly wretched. 

 * * * * *

In this frame of mind I again tackled the harbor. Dillon had told me tocover it all, and this I now set out to do. On warm muggy April days Itramped what appeared to me hundreds of miles. But the regions that fromEleanore's boat had somehow had a feeling of being one great livingthing, now on these dreary trudging days fell apart into remote bays andslips and rivers, hours of weary travel apart and each without anyconnection with any other that I could see. Railroad tracks wound in andout with no apparent purpose, dirty freight boats crawled helter-skelterthis way and that. All seemed a meaningless chaos and jam. 

And still worse, as I wrestled with this confusion I found it wasgrowing stale to me. In those Spring days I was fagged and dull, myimagination would not work. And this gave me a scare. I must _not_ growstale, I must keep right on making money to meet the bills that werestill piling up at home. And so for a Sunday paper I undertook a serieson "The Harbor from a Police Boat. " This sounded rather exciting and Ihoped that it might restore the lost thrill. The harbor that it showedme made fine Sunday reading. Out of its grim waters dead bodies bobbed, dead faces leered, the sodden ends of mysteries. I wrote them and gotpaid for them. And I felt no thrill but only disgust. I made some moremoney out of rats--rats in countless ravenous hordes that had a harborworld of their own. This world extended for hundreds of miles in thedark chill places under the wharves. And the rats kept gnawing, gnawing, and slowly with the help of the waves they wore away to splinters andpulp the millions of beams and planks and piles. I found that entiremountains were denuded each year of their forests to supply food for therats and the ocean here. I was almost a muckraker now. 

Meanwhile I had gone in June to the South Brooklyn waterfront and hadtaken a room in a tenement near the end of a dock peninsula which juttedout into the bay. For I wanted to live in the very heart of the bigport's confusion, to grapple alone with the chaos out of which Dillon'sengineers were striving to bring order. Here I lived for weeks bymyself, taking my meals in a barroom below. 

There were no stately liners here. The North River piers with their richlife had been like a show room. I had come down into the factory now. Icould see them still, those liners, but only in the distance steamingthrough the Narrows. Eleanore had gone that way. Here close around mewere grimy yards with heaps of coal, enormous sheds, and inland one ofthe two narrow mouths of the crowded Erie Basin, out of which slid uglyfreighters through the dirty water. 

Like the Ancient Mariner I sat there dully on the pier watching the lifeof the ocean go past, and I would try to jot it down. But soon I wouldstop. "All right--who cares?" The punch was gone. It grew hot and thewater smelt. And I was as blue a reporter of life as ever chewed hispencil. 

But life has a way of punching up even a stale young writer. In therooms above mine lived a man and wife who quarreled half way through thenight. Night after night they railed at each other, until one horriblenight of screams, in the middle of which I heard the man come runningdownstairs. He banged at my door. 

"Come in, " I cried morosely. A big figure entered the dark room. 

"Look here, " said a rough frightened voice. "Get up and get dressed andrun for a doctor. Will you, son? I'm in a hell of a hole!"

"What's the matter!"

"My woman is havin' a baby, that's what, " he answered fiercely. "Wewasn't expectin' it so soon! An' there ain't a single doctor in miles!But there's a night watchman with a 'phone down there in the dockshed!"

"All right, old man, I'll do my best. "

"Say!" he shouted after me, as I hurried down the stairs. "If you know adamn thing about this business come back here the minute you've'phoned! I'm in a hole, brother, a hell of a hole!"

I came back soon, and within a few minutes after I came I saw a babyborn. 

I did not sleep that night. My mind was curiously clear. I had had thejolt that I needed from life--its agony and bloody sweat, its mystery. It was not dull, it was not stale. The only trouble lay in me. I mustfind a new angle from which to write. 

Why not try becoming one of the workers? The man upstairs was a tugcaptain, and grateful to me for what help I had given; he now agreed totake me on his tug, where there was plenty of simple work which I didfor a dollar a day and my board. And at once I felt a difference. Thelight work steadied my overwrought nerves and unlocked my mind which hadset tight. And now at last I began to see my way out of the jungle. 

For the tug belonged to a row of piers about a mile to the southward. Brand new gigantic piers they were, with solid rows of factory buildingson the shore behind them, all owned by one great company, which rentedfloors or parts of floors to hundreds of manufacturers here. The rawmaterials they required were landed from barges or ships at the piersand delivered to their doors at once, and their finished products wereconveyed in the same way to all parts of the world. Here was a key tothe future port of ordered combination that Eleanore's father wasworking toward. Here was the place I must write up before he came backfrom abroad, to show him that I had found it. 

And the very certainty of this increased my exasperation. For even stillI could not write. Doggedly I worked at night up there in my room in thetenement, but I wrote the most tedious dismal stuff which I would tearup savagely. Inanely I would pound my head as though to put punch intoit. 

But another miracle happened to me. 

On one of those enormous piers, roofed over, dim and cool inside, Istood one day looking out on the deck of an East Indian freighter, wheretwo half-naked Malays were polishing the brasswork. One of them was aboy of ten. His small face was uncouth and primitive almost as somelittle ape's, but I saw him look up again and again with a suddengleaming expectancy. I grew curious and waited. Now the looks cameoftener, his every move was restless. And after a time another boy, alittle New York "newsie, " with a pack of evening papers, came loiteringalong the pier. Unconcernedly up the gang-plank he went, while the Malaycrouched in his corner, rigid and tense, his black eyes fixed. The whiteboy took no notice. Climbing up a ladder he sold a couple of papers tosome officers on a deck above, and then he went down again to the dock. Presently one of the officers yawned and threw his paper over the rail, and as it fell to the lower deck in an instant the Malay boy was uponit, devouring its headlines and its pictures with his animal eyes, withone of his small bare brown feet upon the jeweled bosom of the latestFifth Avenue divorcee. 

"Where does that kid sleep?" I asked an officer. I was shown his bunkbelow, and there I found I had guessed right. For the side and the topand both ends of his bunk were lined with red headlines and newspaperpictures all carefully cut and pasted on. Five of the New York "Giants"were there. 

And as though the fresh fierce hungriness had passed from that smallheathen's soul into my own, that day I again became a reporter of thingsto be seen in the port of New York. 

Back into the dockshed I went, and all up and down and in and out amongpiles of strange and odorous stuffs. And once more I felt the wonder ofthis modern ocean world. I followed this raw produce of Mother Earth'sfour corners back into those factory buildings ashore. I saw it madeinto chewing-gum, toys, sofas, glue, curled hair and wall-paper. I sawit made into ladles' hats, corks, carpets, dynamos, stuffed dates. I sawit made into dirt-proof collars and shirt bosoms, salad dressing, blackboards, corsets and the like. Again I fairly reveled in lists ofthings and the places they came from and the places to which they weregoing. I saw chewing-gum start for Rio and Quaker Oats for Shanghai, patent medicine for Nabat, curled hair for Yokohama, "movy" theaterseats for Sydney, tomato soup for Cape Town and corsets for Rangoon. 

"From Everywhere to Anywhere" was the title of my article. It took onlya week to write, and was ready when the Dillons came home. 

CHAPTER XIV

They landed toward the end of July and I went to the dock to meet them. 

Elated over my finished story, which I had in my pocket, and madeabsurdly happy by the sight of Eleanore smiling down at me over therail, I was surprised at the greeting she gave me. 

"Why, you poor boy. How terribly hard you've been working, " she said. And she looked at me as though I were sick and worn to the bone. The endof it was that I accepted delightedly an invitation to spend a week upat their cottage on the Sound. 

Those were seven vivid glowing days. I could not relax, I was toointensely happy, I had too much to tell her, not only about my work butabout a host of other things that without rhyme or reason popped into mymind and had to be said. The range of our talk was tremendous, and thewider we ranged the closer we drew. For she too was telling things, andher things were as unexpected as mine and infinitely more absorbing. Hermanner toward me had quite changed. It was that of a nurse with aninvalid, she frankly ordered me about. 

"Why can't you lie back on those cushions?" she asked one morning whenwe were out in her boat. "You ought to be dozing half the day--andinstead you're as wide awake as an owl. "

"I am, " I admitted happily. "I'm trying to see everything. " The chiclittle hat and the blouse she wore were adorably fresh from Paris, andas I watched her run her boat I could feel flowing into my body and soula perfectly boundless store of new life. 

"I've been thinking you over, " she said. 

"Have you?" I asked delightedly. I had often wondered if she had. "Whatdo you think?" I inquired. 

Eleanore frowned perplexedly. 

"You're such a queer combination, " she said. "You have such ridiculousups and downs. To-day you're way up, aren't you. "

"I am, " I said very earnestly. She looked off placidly over the Sound. 

"You're so very sensitive, " she went on. "You let things take hold ofyou so hard. And yet on the other hand you seem to be so very----" shehesitated for a word. 

"Tough, " I suggested cheerfully. 

"No--hungry, " Eleanore said. "You're always reaching out for things--youjump right into them so hard. And even when they hurt you--and you'rehurt quite easily--you hang on and won't let go. Look at the way you'vegone at the harbor right from the start. And you're doing itstill--you've done it all summer until it has made you look like aghost. And I guess you'll keep on all your life. There are harborseverywhere, you know--in a way the whole world is a harbor--and unlessyou change a lot you're going to be hurt a good deal. "

"My mother agreed with you, " I said. "She wanted me to be a professor ina quiet college town. "

"Please stop twinkling your eyes, " Eleanore commanded. "Your mother knewyou very well. You might have done that--and settled down--with somenice quiet college girl--if you had done it years ago. As it is, ofcourse you're hopeless. "

"I am not hopeless, " I declared indignantly. "If I can only get what Iwant I'll be the happiest fellow alive!"

"I know, " she answered thoughtfully. "You told me that before. You wantfiction, don't you. "

"Yes, fiction, " I said wrathfully. "I want that more than anythingelse. But I don't want any quiet kind, and I don't want any quiet town, "I went on, leaning forward intensely. "I want the harbor and the city--Iwant it thick and heavy, and just as fast as it will come. I want allthe life there is in the world--all the beauty--all the happiness! And Ican't wait--I want it soon!"

From under the brim of her soft white hat her blue-gray eyes were fixedintently on the shore, which was miles away. But watching her I saw sheknew that all the time I was saying desperately, "I want you. "

I knew she did not want me to say anything like that out loud, and Ifelt myself that I had no right--not until I had done so much more in mywriting. But I kept circling around it. Half the time on purpose and asoften quite unconsciously, in all we talked about those days I kepteagerly filling in the picture of the life we two might lead. When inone of her cool hostile moods--moods which came over her suddenly--shetold me almost jealously how happy she'd been with her father abroad andhow together they had planned to go to India, China, Japan in the yearsto come, I brought her back to my subject by saying: "I mean to travel alot myself. "

"That's one advantage I have as a writer, " I continued earnestly. "I'llnever be tied down to one place. All my life--whenever I choose--I canpick up my work and go anywhere. "

She looked straight back into my eyes. 

"I wish my father could, " she said. 

"Look here, " I said indignantly. "Your father has been four monthsabroad while I have been in Brooklyn! Isn't it only fair and square tolet _me_ travel this afternoon?" She looked at me reluctantly. 

"Yes, " she agreed. "I suppose it is. "

"Come along, " I urged, and off we went. While our boat drifted idly thatlong, lazy afternoon, we went careering all over the world and I keptdoggedly by her side. Every now and then I would make her stop while wehad a good look at each other, exploring deep into the old questions, "What are you and what do you want?"

"You can't run a motorboat all your life, " I reminded her. "What are yougoing to tackle next?"

"Our living-room, " she answered. "I'm going to have it done over nextmonth. "

That took us into house furnishings, and I gave her ideas by the score. I had never thought about this before, but now I thought hard andeagerly--until she brought me up with a jerk, by pityingly murmuring:

"What perfectly frightful taste you have. It's funny--because you're anartist--you really write quite beautiful things. "

"I don't care, " I answered grimly. "I can see that living-room----"

"So can I, " she said cheerfully. "But so long as you like it, that's allthere is to be said. You're the one who has to live in it, you know. Nowmy father likes a room----"

And while I looked gloomily over the water she told me what her fatherliked. 

 * * * * *

He came out from the city each evening by train. He refused to use theboat these days, he said he was so infernally busy that he could notspare the time. He brought out stacks of papers and plans which hadpiled up while he was abroad, and with these he busied himself at night. And though Eleanore from the veranda glanced in at him frequently, shenever again caught him looking old. And when she went in to make himstop working he smilingly told her to leave him alone. He smoked manycigars with apparent enjoyment, his lean face wrinkling over the smokeas he turned over plan after plan for the harbor. His manner to me wasif anything even kindlier than before. He began calling me "Billy" now. 

On the last night of my stay he said:

"I think you're the man I've been looking for. I've just read your storyand you've done exactly what I hoped. You've pictured one spot ofefficiency in a whole dreary desert of waste. Come up to my officeto-morrow at ten. "

CHAPTER XV

So at last I went up to the tower. 

His office took up an entire floor near the tapering top of thebuilding, and as we walked slowly around the narrow steel balconyoutside, a tremendous panorama unrolled down there before our eyes. Wecould see every part of the port below stretching away to the horizon, and through Dillon's powerful field glass I saw pictures of all I hadseen before in my weary weeks of trudging down there in the haze anddust. Down there I had felt like a little worm, up here I felt among thegods. There all had been matter and chaos, here all was mind and a willto find a way out of confusion. The glass gave me the pictures in swiftsuccession, in a moment I made a leap of ten miles, and as I listened onand on to the quiet voice at my elbow, the pictures all came sweepingtogether as parts of one colossal whole. The first social vision of mylife I had through Dillon's field glass. 

"To see any harbor or city or state as a whole, " he said, "is what mostAmericans cannot do. And it's what they've got to learn to do. "

And while I looked where he told me to, like a surgeon about to operatehe talked of his mighty patient, a giant struggling to breathe, withswollen veins and arteries. He made me see the Hudson, the East Riverand the railroad lines all pouring in their traffic, to be shifted andreloaded onto the ocean vessels in a perfect fever of confusion anddelay. Far below us you could see long lines of tiny trucks and wagonswaiting hours for a chance to get into the docksheds. New York, hesaid, in true Yankee style had developed its waterfront pell mell, eachrailroad and each ship line grabbing sites for its own use, until theport was now so clogged, so tangled and congested that it was able togrow no more. 

"And it's got to grow, " he said. The old helter-skelter method hadserved well enough in years gone by, for this port had been like thiswhole bountiful land, its natural advantages had been so prodigious itcould stand all our blind and hoggish mistakes. But now we were rapidlynearing the time when every mistake we made would cost us tens ofmillions of dollars. For within a few years the Big Ditch would openacross Panama, and the commerce of South America, together with that ofthe Orient, would pour into the harbor here to meet the westboundcommerce of Europe. Ships of all nations would steam through theNarrows, and we must be ready to welcome them all, with an amplegenerous harbor worthy of the world's first port. 

"To get ready, " he said, "what we've got to do is to organize this portas a whole, like the big industrial plant it is. "

He began to show me some of the plans in blue-print maps and sketches. Isaw tens of thousands of freight cars gathered in great central yards ata few main strategic points connected by long tunnels with all the minorcenters. I saw the port no longer as a mere body of water, but with awhole region deep beneath of these long winding tunnels through whichflowed the traffic unseen and unheard. I saw along the waterfrontscontinuous lines of docksheds where by huge cranes and other devices theloading and unloading could be done with enormous saving of time. Alongthe heavy roofs of steel of these continuous lines of buildingsstretched wide ocean boulevards with trees and shrubs and flowers toshut out the clamorous life below. Warehouses and factory buildings rosein solid rows behind. The city was to build them all, and the city asthe landlord was to invite the ships and railroads, and themanufacturers too, to come in and get together, to stop their fightingand grabbing and work with each other in one great plan. 

"That's what we mean nowadays by a port, " he told me at the end of ourtalk. "A complicated industrial organ, the heart of a country'scirculation, pumping in and out its millions of tons of traffic asquickly and cheaply as possible. That's efficiency, scientificmanagement or just plain engineering, whatever you want to call it. Butit's got to be done for us all in a plan instead of each for himself ina blind struggling chaos. "

 * * * * *

I came down from the tower with a dazed, excited feeling which lastedall the rest of the day. That harbor of confusion had been for months myentire world, it had baffled and beaten me till I was weak. And now thisman had swept together all its parts and showed me one immense design. 

He had promised me the first use of his plans. With this to go on Idrafted a scheme for a series of magazine articles on "The First Port ofthe World, " and I soon placed it in advance at four hundred dollars anarticle. At last I was coming up in life, my first big story had begun!

I went with Dillon each week-end up to the cottage on the Sound. Here hetalked in detail of his dreams, and Eleanore with her old passion andpride delighted to draw him out for me. And not only her father--for tohelp me in my work she invited out here in the evenings many of hisengineer friends. 

"It has always been awfully hard for me, " she confided, "to understandbig questions by reading about them out of books. But I love to hearabout them from men who are living and working right in them. I love tofeel a little how it must be to be living their lives. "

She was a wonderful listener, for she had quietly studied each man untilnow she had a kind of an instinct for drawing the very best of him out. While he talked she would sit with her sewing, now and then putting in aquestion to help. Often I would glance at her there and see in herslightly frowning face how intently she was listening, thinking andplanning to help me. Sometimes she would meet my look. I would growtremendously happy. 

"In a little while, " I thought. But then I would pull myself up with ajerk: "Stop looking at her, you young fool, keep your mind on thisengineer. You've got the chance of your life right now to make good inyour work and be happy. Don't fall down! Get busy!"

And I did. I threw myself into the lives of these men who were theliving embodiments of all that bigness, boldness, punch that had sogripped and thrilled me. The harbor had drawn them around it out of thehum and rush of the country, and here they were in its service, watchingit, studying, planning for its even more stupendous growth. One night Iheard them discuss the idea of moving the East River, making it flowacross Long Island, filling in its old water bed and making New York andBrooklyn one. They talked of this scheme in a hard-headed Yankee waythat made me forget for the moment its boldness, until some cool remarkopened my eyes to the fact that this change would shift vastpopulations, plant millions of people this way and that. 

But against these men of the tower, with their wide, deliberate viewsahead, embracing and binding together not only this port but the wholewestern world depending upon it, I found in the city jungle innumerablepetty men, who could see only their own narrow interests of to-day, andwho fought blindly any change for a to-morrow--fellows in such mortalfear of some possible benefit to their rivals that they could see nonefor themselves. They were hopelessly used to fighting each other. And Icame to feel that all these men, though many were still young in years, belonged to a generation gone by, to the age of individual strife thatmy father had lived and worked in--and that like him they were all soonto be swept to one side by the inexorable harbor of to-day, which had nofurther use for them. 

It needed bigger men. It needed men like Dillon and behind him thosemysterious powers downtown, the men he had called the brains of thenation, who read the signs of the new times, who saw that the West wasnow fast filling up, that the eyes of the nation were once more turningoutward, and that untold resources of wealth were soon to be availablefor mighty sea adventures, a vast fleet of Yankee ships that shoulddrive the surplus output of our teeming industries into all markets ofthe world. And the men who saw these things coming were the only oneswho were big enough to prepare the country to meet them. My father'sdream was at last coming true--too late for him to play a part. He hadbeen but a prophet, a lonely pioneer. 

My view of the harbor was different now. I had seen it before as a vastmachine molding the lives of all people around it. But now behind themachine itself I felt the minds of its molders. I saw its ponderousmasses of freight, its multitudes of people, all pushed and shifted thisway and that by these invisible powers. And by degrees I made for myselfa new god, and its name was Efficiency. 

Here at last was a god that I felt could stand! I had made so many inyears gone by, I had been making them all my life--from those firstfearful idols, the condors and the cannibals, to the kind old god ofgoodness in my mother's church and the radiant goddess of beauty and artover there in Paris. One by one I had raised them up, and one by one theharbor had flowed in and dragged them down. But now in my full manhood(for remember I was twenty-five!) I had found and taken to myself a godthat I felt sure of. No harbor could make it totter and fall. For it wasarmed with Science, its feet stood firm on mechanical laws and in itshead were all the brains of all the strong men at the top. 

And all the multitudes below seemed mere pigmies to me now. I rememberone late twilight, coming back from a talk with an engineer, I boarded aferry at the rush hour and watched the people herd on like sheep. Howsmall they seemed, how petty their thoughts compared to mine, how blindtheir views of the harbor. 

Here was a little Italian bride, just landed, by the looks of her. Shekept her face close to her lover's, smiling dazedly into his eyes. Andshe saw no harbor. Here near by was a fat old gentleman with a highlypainted young lady who laughed and swore softly at him as I passed. Isat down beside them a moment and listened. The old gentleman seemedquite mad with desire. He was pleading eagerly, whining. And he saw noharbor. Close by sat two tall serious men. One was deep in a socialistbook, the other in news of the Giants. Both seemed equally absorbed. Andthey saw no harbor. I moved on to another spot, and sitting down by athin seedy-looking Irish girl I heard her talk to her husband abouthaving their baby's life insured according to a wonderful plan an agenthad described to her. As she spoke she was frowning anxiously--and shesaw no harbor. Not far away a plump flashy young creature was smilingdown on the bootblack who was busily shining her small patent leathershoes. Her bright blue petticoat lifted high displayed the most enticingcharms, and as now she turned to look off toward the lights of the cityahead, she smiled gaily to herself. And she saw no harbor. And alone upat the windy bow I found a squat husky laborer with his dirty coat andshirt thrown open wide, the wind on his bare hairy chest, hungrilywatching the dock ahead as though for his supper--seeing no harbor, noworld's first port, no plans for vast fleets or a great canal, none ofthe big things shaping his life. 

But I saw. Orders had gone out from the tower east and west and southand north to show me every courtesy. And with a miraculous youthful easeI understood all that I saw and heard. The details all fitted right intothe whole, or if they didn't I made them fit. Here was a splendid end tochaos and blind wrestling with life. And feeling stronger and more surethan ever in my life before, I set out to build my series of glorystories about it all, laying on the color thick to reach a million pigmyreaders, grip them, pull them out of their holes, make them sit up andrub their eyes. 

For I was now a success in life! The exuberant joy of youth and successfilled the whole immense region for me. In those Fall days there wasnothing too hard to try, no queer hours too exhausting, no deep cornertoo remote, in the search for my material. I saw the place from an oldfisherman's boat and from a revenue launch at night, with itssearchlight combing the waters far and wide for smugglers. I saw it frombig pilot boats that put far out to sea to meet the incoming liners. Iate many good suppers and slept long nights on a stout jolly tug called_The Happy_, where from my snug bunk at the stern through the open doorI could watch the stars. I went down into tunnels deep beneath thewaters. I went often to the Navy Yard. I dined many nights onbattleships, where the talk of the naval officers recalled my father'spicture of a fighting ocean world. They too talked of the Big Canal, butin terms of war instead of peace. I went out to the coast defenses, andwith an army major I made a tour of the lights and buoys. 

And perhaps more often than anywhere else, I went to a rude log cabin onthe side of a wooded hill high up on Staten Island, where lived aNorwegian engineer. He had a cozy den up there, with book-shelves setinto the logs, two deep bunks, a few bright rugs on the rough floor, some soft, ponderous leather chairs and a crackling little stove onwhich we cooked delicious suppers. Later out on the narrow porch wewould puff lazy smoke wreaths and watch the vast valley of lights below, from the distant twinkling arch of the Bridge to the sparkling towers ofold Coney. Down there like swarms of fire-flies were countless dartingskurrying lights, red and blue and green and white. Far off to the southflashed the light of the Hook, and still other signals gleamed low fromthe ocean. 

Here I came often with Eleanore, for she had now come back to town. Inher boat we went to many new spots and back to all the old ones. Wefound new beauties in them all. At home in the evenings we had longtalks. And all the time I could feel that we two both knew what wascoming, that steadily we were drawing together, that all my work and myview of the harbor took its joy and its glory from this. 

"In a little while, " I thought. 

CHAPTER XVI

I had been little at home those days, for the house in Brooklyndisturbed me now. Poor old Dad. Since I had secured my contract he hadtried so hard to help me, to be eager, interested, alive, to talk it allover with me at night. And this I did not like to do. A vague feeling ofguilt and disloyalty would creep into my now boundless zest for theharbor that had crowded him out. And I think that he suspected this. Onenight, when with this feeling I stupidly tried to talk as though I stillhated all its ugliness, its clamor, smoke and grime, I caught a twinkleof pain in his eyes. 

"Boy, " he broke in roughly, "I hope you'll always talk and write whatyou believe and nothing else! I wouldn't give a picayune for any chapwho didn't!"

I could feel him watching anxiously my affair with Eleanore. In the dayswhen she had come to the house he had grown very fond of her, and now byfrequent questions, slipped in with a studied indifference, he showed aninterest which in time became a deep suspense. 

"Out again this evening, son?" he called in one night from the bathroomwhere he was washing his hands and face before going down to supper. Inmy room adjoining I was dressing to go out. 

"Yes, Dad. "

"What for?"

"Some work. "

"Be out for dinner too?"

"Yes. "

"Who with?"

"Oh, a pilot, " I answered abstractedly. I was wondering if she wouldwear her blue gown. She had asked quite a number of people that night. Then I saw Dad in the doorway. Briskly rubbing his gray head with atowel, he was eyeing my evening clothes. 

"Devilish polished chaps these days--pilots, " he commented. I heard alow snort of glee from his room. 

My sister, on the other hand, had no more patience than before with thisfast deepening love of mine, which had drawn me away from her radicalfriends up to the men of the tower who worked for the big companies. Bythe most vigorous ironies, the most industrious witty remarks, she mademe feel how thoroughly she disapproved of anything so deadening asmarriage, home and settling down, in this glorious age of new ideas. 

One morning at breakfast, when I remarked as I commonly did that I wouldbe out for dinner that night, "Where are you going?" she asked abruptly. 

"To Eleanore Dillon's, " I replied. Our eyes met squarely for a moment. 

"Do you know what it means to go there so often, almost every night?"she asked. 

"I do, " I answered bluntly. I would finish this meddling once and forall. But Sue did not look finished. 

"You'd better stay home to-night, Billy, " she said. 

"Why?"

"Joe Kramer is coming. "

"What?"

"He telephoned me late last night. He's just come from Colorado and hesails to-morrow for England. He's awfully anxious to see you. "

Of course he was, and I knew what about! I saw at once by the look onher face that Sue had told him all about me and had begged him to seewhat he could do. Why couldn't they leave a fellow alone, I saidwrathfully to myself. 

But my ire softened when I met Joe. In the year and a half since I hadseen him the lines in his face had deepened, the stoop of his bigshoulders had grown even more pronounced, and again I felt that wistful, frowning, searching quality in him. Beneath his gruffness and his jeershe was so honestly pushing on for what he could find most real in life. A wave of the old affection came over me suddenly without warning. Vaguely I wondered about it. Why did he always grip me so?

My father too appeared at first delighted to see him. He had shown akeen relish for J. K. From that first time in college when I had broughthim home for Christmas. Since then, whenever Joe had come, he and Dadhad always managed to retreat to the study together and smoke and havelong dogged arguments. But to-night it was not the same. For in hisgrowth as a radical, Joe had gone beyond all arguing now. Lines of deepdispleasure slowly tightened on Dad's face. All through dinner he keptattempting to turn the talk from Joe's work to mine. But this I wouldhave none of, I wanted to be let alone. So I nervously kept theconversation on what Joe was up to. And Sue seemed more than eager tolearn. 

J. K. Was up to a good deal. 

"This muckraking game is played out, " he said. "We all know how rottenthings are. All we want to know now is what's to be done. " And hehimself had become absorbed in what the working class was doing. As areporter in the West he had been to strike after strike, ending with along ugly struggle in the Colorado mines. He talked about it intensely, the greed of the mine owners, the brutality of the militia, the "bullpens" into which strikers were thrown. Vaguely I felt he was giving us amost distorted picture, and glancing now and then at my father I sawthat he thought it a pack of lies. Joe made all the strikers the mostheroic figures, and he spoke of their struggle as only a part of a greatlabor war that was soon to sweep the entire land. 

Sue excitedly drew him out, and I felt it was all for my benefit. Joesaid that he was going abroad in order that he might write the truthabout the labor world over there. The American papers and magazineswould let you write the truth, he said, about labor over in Europe, because it was at a safe distance. But they wouldn't allow it here. Andthen Sue looked across at me as though to say, "It's only stuff like_yours_ they allow. "

"Why don't you two go out for a walk?" she suggested sweetly afterdinner. And I consented gladly, for there are times when nothing onearth can be worse than your own sister. 

 * * * * *

We went down to the old East River docks and walked for some time withlittle said. Then Joe turned on me abruptly. 

"Well, Bill, " he said, "I've read your stuff. It's damn well written. "

"Thanks, " I replied. 

"If I've got any knocking to do, " he went on with a visible effort, "Iknow you'll give me credit for not knocking out of jealousy. I'm notjealous, I'm honestly tickled to death. I was wrong about you in Paris. You and me were different kinds. What you got over there was just whatyou needed, it has put you already way out of my class, and it's goingto give you a lot of power as a spreader of ideas. That's why I hate solike the devil to see you starting out like this, with what I'm so sureare the wrong ideas. "

"How are they wrong?"

"Think a minute. Why is your magazine pushing you so? The first story ofyour series is only just out and they've already boomed you all over thecountry. Why, Bill, I saw your picture in a trolley car in Denver--andyou're only twenty-five years old! It's damn fine writing, I'll say itagain, but that's not reason enough for this. You've got to go downdeeper and look into your magazine's policy--which is to strike abalance for all kinds of middle-class readers and for their advertiserstoo. They've run some radical stuff this year, and they're booming younow to balance off, to show how 'safe and sane' they can be in the waythey look at life, at big business and at industry--as you do here inthe harbor. You're making gods out of the men at the top, you've seen'em as they see themselves, and you've only seen what they see here. You've missed all the millions of people here who depend on the placefor their jobs and their lives. They don't count for you----"

"That's not true at all!" I interrupted hotly. "It's just for them andtheir children that fellows like Dillon are on the job--to make a betterharbor!"

"_For_ them, _for_ the people!" said Joe. "That's what I'm kicking at inyou, Bill--you treat us all like a mass of dubs that need gods above todo everything _for_ us because we can't do it all by ourselves!"

"I don't believe the people can, " I retorted. "From what I've seen Ihonestly don't believe they count. The fellows that count in a job likethis are the fellows with punch and grit enough to fight their way upout of the ranks----"

"I know, and be lieutenants and captains in a regular army of peace, with your friend Dillon in command and Wall Street in command of him!Isn't that your view?"

"All right, it is! I don't see any harm in that. It's the only safe waythat I can see out of this mess of a harbor we've got. These men are theefficient ones--they're the fellows that have the brains and that knowhow to work--to use science, money, everything--to get a decent worldahead. What's the matter with efficiency?"

"Your latest god, " sneered J. K. 

"Suppose it is! What's wrong with it? What's the matter with Dillon? Ishe a crook?"

"No, " said Joe, "that's just the worst of him. He's so damned honest, he's such a hard worker. I've met men like him all over the country, and they're the most dangerous men we've got. Because they're the realstrength of Wall Street--just as thousands of clean hard working priestsare the strength of the Catholic church! They keep their church goingand Dillon keeps his--he's a regular priest of big business! And hetakes hold of kids like you and molds your views like his for life. Lookat what he has done with you here. Does he say a word to you aboutGraft? Does he talk of the North Atlantic Pool or any one of the otherpools and schemes by which they keep up rates? Does he make you thinkabout low wages and long hours and all the fellows hurt or killed on thedocks and in the stoke holes? Does he give you any feeling at all ofthis harbor as a city of four million people, most of 'em getting a rawdeal and getting mad about it? That's more important to you and me thanall the efficiency gods on earth. You've got to decide which side you'reon. And that's what's got me talking now. I see so plain which wayyou're letting yourself be pulled. I've seen so many pulled the sameway. It's so pleasant up there at the top, there's so much money andbrains up there and refinement--such women to get married to, such homesto settle down in. Sometimes I wish every promising radical kid in thecountry could get himself into some scandal that would cut him off forlife from any chance of being received by this damned respectable upperclass!"

He stopped for a moment, and then with a gruff intensity:

"We need you, Bill, " he ended. "We need you bad. We don't want you tomarry a girl at the top. We don't want you anchored up there for life. "

We were standing still now, and I was looking out on the river. Throughthe grip of his hand on my arm I could feel his body taut and quivering, his whole spirit hot with revolt. The same old Joe, but tenser now, strained almost to the breaking point. But I myself was different. Incollege he had appealed to me because there I was groping and had foundnothing. But now I had found something sure. And so, though to my ownsurprise a deep emotional part of me rose up in sudden response to Joeand made me feel guilty to hold back, it was only for a moment, and thenmy mind told me he was wrong. Poor old J. K. What a black distorted viewhe had--grown out of a distorted life of traveling continually from onecenter of trouble to another. How could he be any judge of life?

"Look here, Joe, " I said. "I'm a kid, as you say, and some day I may seeyour side of this. But I don't now, I can't--for since I left Paris I'vebeen through enough to make me feel what a job living is, I mean reallyliving and growing. And I know what a difference Dillon has made. He hasbeen to my life what he is to this harbor. And I'm not old enough norstrong enough to throw over a man as big as that and as honest and cleanin his thinking, and throw myself in with your millions of people, whoseem to me either mighty poor thinkers or fellows who don't think atall. They're not in my line. I believe in men who can think clean, whohave trained their minds by years of hard work, who don't try to teardown and bring things to a smash, but are always building, building! Youtalk about this upper class. But they're my people, aren't they, that'swhere I was born. And I'm going on with them. I believe they're rightand I know they're strong--I mean strong enough to handle all this--makeit better. "

"They'll make it worse, " Joe answered. And then as he turned to me oncemore he added very bitterly, "You'll see strength enough in the peoplesome day. "

A few moments later he left me. 

I looked at my watch and found it was not yet nine o'clock. I went toEleanore Dillon. And within an hour Joe and his world of crowds andconfusion were swept utterly out of my mind. 

CHAPTER XVII

I had often told Eleanore of Joe. She had asked me about him many times. "It's queer, " she had said, "what a hold he must have had on you. I feelsure he's just the kind of a person I wouldn't like and who wouldn'tlike me. I don't think he's really your kind either, and yet he has ahold on you still. Yes, he has, I can feel he has. "

And to-night when I told her that I had been with him, "What did he want of you?" she asked. 

"He wants me to drop everything, " I answered. And I tried to give hersome idea of what he had said. 

But as I talked, the thought came suddenly into my mind that here atlast was the very time to settle my life one way or the other, to askher if she would be my wife. I grew excited and confused, my voicesounding unnatural to my ears. And as I talked on about Joe, my heartpounding, I could barely keep the thoughts in line. 

"And I don't want what he wants, " I ended desperately. "That noranything like it. I want just what I've been getting--just this kind ofwork and life. And I want _you_--for life, I mean--if you can ever feellike that. "

Eleanore said nothing. In an instant the world and everything in it hadnarrowed to the two of us. The intensity was unbearable. I rose abruptlyand turned away. I felt suddenly far out of my depth. Confusedly andfuriously I felt that I had bungled things, that here was something inlife so strange I could do nothing with it. What a young fool I was tohave thought she could ever care for a fellow like me! I felt she mustbe smiling. Despairingly I turned to see. 

And Eleanore was smiling--in a way that steadied me in a flash. For hersmile was so plainly a quick, strong effort to steady herself. 

"I'm glad you want me like that, " she said, in a voice that did notsound like hers. "I don't believe in hiding things. .. . I'm--very happy. "She looked down at her hands in her lap and they slowly locked together. "But of course it means our whole lives, you see--and we mustn't hurryor make a mistake. Now that we know--this much--we can talk about itquite openly--about each other and what we want--what kinds oflives--what we believe in--whether we'd be best for each other. It'swhat we ought to talk about--a good many times--it may be weeks. "

"All right, " I agreed. I was utterly changed. At her first words I hadfelt a deep rush of relief, and seeing her tremendous pluck and theeffort she was making, I pitied, worshiped and loved her all in the samemoment. And as we talked on for a few minutes more in that grave andunnaturally sensible way about the pros and cons of it all, thesefeelings within me mounted so swiftly that all at once I again brokeoff. 

"I don't believe there's any use in this, " I declared. "It's perfectlyidiotic!"

"Of course it is, " she promptly agreed. 

And then after a rigid instant when each of us looked at the other asthough asking, "Quick! What are we going to do?"--she burst out laughingexcitedly. So did I, and that carried her into my arms and--I remembernothing--until after a while she asked me to go, because she wanted tobe by herself. And I noticed how bright and wet were her eyes. 

I saw them still in the darkness down along the river front, where Iwalked for half the rest of the night, stopping to draw a deep breathof the sea and laugh excitedly and go on. 

 * * * * *

Life changed rapidly after that night. I grew so absorbed in Eleanoreand in all that was waiting just ahead, that it was hard not to shut outeverything else, most of all impersonal things. It was hard to write, and for days I wrote nothing. I remember only intimate talks. Everyone Italked to seemed to be deeply personal. 

I told my father about it the next evening before supper. I found him inhis old chair in the study buried deep in his paper. 

"Say, Dad--would you mind coming up to your room?" He smote his paper toone side. 

"What the devil, " he asked, "do I want to come up to my room for?"

"I've--the fact is I've something you ought to know. " I could hear Suein the other room. 

"All right, my boy, " he said nervously. As he followed me he keptclearing his throat. Sue must have guessed and prepared him. In his roomhe fussed about, grunted hard over getting off his shoes and, findinghis slippers, then lay back on his sofa with his hands behind his headand uttered an explosive sigh. 

"All right, son, now fire ahead, " he said jocosely. I loved him at thatmoment. 

"You know Eleanore Dillon, " I began. 

"She turned you down!"

"No! She took me!"

"The devil you say!" He sat bolt upright, staring. "Well, my boy, I'mvery glad, " he said thickly. His eyes were moist. "I'm glad--glad! She'sa fine girl--strong character--strong! I wish your poor mother werealive--she'd be happy--this girl will make a good wife--you must bringher right here to live with us!"

And so he talked on, his voice trembling. Then out of his confusion rosethe money question, and at once his mind grew clear. And to my surprisehe urged me to lose no time in looking around for "some good, steadyposition" in a magazine office. My writing I could do at night. 

"It's so uncertain at best, " he said. "It's nothing you can count on. And you've got to think of a wife and children. _Her_ father has nomoney saved. "

I found he'd been looking Dillon up, and this jarred on me horribly. Butstill worse was his lack of faith in my writing. I was making fourhundred dollars a month, and it was a most unpleasant jolt to have ittaken so lightly. 

I went down to Sue. As I came into the living room she met me suddenlyat the door. In a moment her arms were about my neck and she was sayingsoftly:

"I know what it is, dear, and I'm glad--I'm awfully glad. If I've beenhorrid about it ever, please forgive me. I'm sure now it's just the lifeyou want!"

And that evening, while Dad slept in his chair, Sue and I had a longaffectionate talk. We drew closer than we had been for months. She waseager to hear everything, she wanted to know all our plans. When I triedat last to turn our talk to herself and our affairs at home, at firstshe would not hear to it. 

"My dear boy, " she said affectionately, "you've had these worries longenough. You're to run along now and be happy and leave this house to Dadand me. "

I slipped my arm around her:

"Look here, Sis, let's see this right. You can't run here on what Dadearns, and if you try to work yourself you'll only hurt him terribly. Myidea is to help as before, without letting him know that I'm doing it. Make him think you've cut expenses. "

It took a long time to get her consent. 

The next night I went to Eleanore's father. He received me quietly, andwith a deep intensity under that steady smile of his, which reminded meso much of hers, he spoke of all she had meant to him and of her bravesearch for a big, happy life. He told how he had watched her with meslowly making up her mind. 

"It took a long time, but it's made up now, " he said. "And now that itis, she's the kind that will go through anything for you that can evercome up in your life. " He looked at me squarely, still smiling a little, frankly letting his new affection come into his eyes. "I wish I knew allthat's going to happen, " he added, almost sadly. "I hope you'll get usedto telling me things--talking things over--anything--no matterwhat--where I can be of the slightest help. "

Then he, too, spoke of money. He meant to keep up her allowance, hesaid, and he had insured his life for her. Again, as with my father, Ifelt that disturbing lack of faith in my work. I spoke of it to Eleanoreand she looked at me indignantly. 

"You must never think of it like that, " she said. "I won't have youwriting for money. Dad has never worked that way and you're not to do iton any account--least of all on account of me. Whatever you make we'lllive on, and that's all there is to be said--except that we'll livesplendidly, " she added very gaily, "and we won't spend the finest partof our lives saving up for rainy days. We'll take care of the rain whenit rains, and we'll have some wonderful times while we can. "

We decided at once on a trip abroad as soon as I had finished my work. And I remember writing hard, and reading it aloud to her and rewritingover and over again, for Eleanore could be severe. But I remember, too, more trips in her boat to gather the last odds and ends. I remember howthe big harbor took on a new glory to our eyes, mingled with all thedeep personal joys and small troubles and crises we went through, thepuzzles and the questionings and the glad discoveries that made up theswift growth of our love. 

And though I never once thought of Joe Kramer, he had prophesiedaright. I belonged wholly now to Dillon's world, a world of cleanvigorous order that seemed to welcome me the more as I wrote in praiseof its power. And happy over my success, and in love and starting lifeanew with all the signs so bright--how could I have any doubts of myharbor?

We were married very quietly late one April afternoon. It rained, Iremember, all that day, but the next was bright and clear for oursailing. In our small stateroom on the ship we found a note from thecompany, a large, engraved impressive affair, presenting their bestwishes and asking us to accept for the voyage one of their mostluxurious cabins. 

"This is what comes, " said Eleanore gaily, "of being the wife of awriter. "

"Or the daughter, " I said softly, "of a very wonderful engineer. "

"You darling boy!"

We moved up to a large sunny cabin. I remember her swiftly reading thetelegrams and letters there as though to get them all out of the way. Iremember her unpacking and taking possession of our first home. 

"We're married, aren't we, " said a voice. 

There was only one more good-by to be said. On the deck, as we went outof the harbor, Eleanore stood by the rail. I felt her hand close tighton mine and I saw her eyes glisten a little with tears. 

"What a splendid place it has been, " she said. 

CHAPTER XVIII

We found every place splendid in those weeks as we let the wanderlustcarry us on. And as though emerging from some vivid dream, variousplaces and faces of people stand out in my memory now, as then theyloomed in upon our absorption. 

I remember the little old harbor of Cherbourg, gleaming in themoonlight, where when we landed Eleanore said, "Let's stay here awhile. "So of course we did, and then went on to Paris. We took an apartment, very French and absurdly small, from a former Beaux Arts friend of mine. I remember the kindly face of the maid who took such beaming care of us, the café in front of which late at night we sat and watched the hugeshadowy carts go by on their way to the market halls, the sunrise flowermarket, where we filled our cab with moss roses and plants, Polin'ssongs in the "Ambassadeurs, " delicious petites allées in the Bois, ourfavorite rides on the tops of the 'buses, that old religious place ofmine down under the bridge by Notre Dame. 

All these and more we saw in fragments, now and then, looking out withvivid interest on all the life around us, only to return to each other, _into_ each other I should say, for the exploring was quite differentnow, there had been such hours between us that nothing intimate could beheld back. Nothing? Well, nothing that I thought of then. For somehow orother, in those glad, eager afternoons and evenings, in those nights, nothing disturbingly ugly in me so much as thought of showing its head. Three years before in this stirring town I had felt guilty at being amonk. But now I felt no guilt at all. For down the Champs Élysées ourcab rolled serenely now, and even our driver's white hat wore an air asthough it had a place in life. 

From Paris we started for Munich, but we did not stop there, we happenedto feel like going on. So we went through to Constantinople, whence wetook a boat to Batoum and went up into the Caucasus, which Eleanore hadheard about once from an engineer friend of her father's. I rememberKoutais, a little town by a mountain torrent with gray vine-coveredwalls around it. Shops opened into the walls like stalls. There we wouldbuy things for our supper and then in a crazy vehicle we would drivemiles out on the broad mountainside to an orchard pink with blossoms, where we would build a fire and cook, and an old man in a long yellowrobe and with a turban on his head would come out of his cabin and bringus wine. And the stars would appear and the frogs tune up in the marshesfar down in the valley below, and the filmy mists would rise and themountains would tower overhead. And the effect of this place upon us wasto make us feel it was only one of innumerable such vacation places thatlay ahead, festival spots in long, radiant lives. We felt this vaguely, silently. So often we talked silently. 

Then there would come the most serious times, when with the deepestthoughtfulness we would survey the years ahead and very solemnly placeourselves, our views and beliefs. Miraculous how agreed we were! Webelieved, we found, in good workmanship, in honest building, in gettingthings done. We believed in Eleanore's father and all those around andabove him that could help his kind of work. We were impatient ofsoft-headedness in rich people who had nothing to do, and of heavymuddle-headedness in the millions who had too much to do, and ofmuckraking of every kind which only got in the way of the builders. Forthe building of a new, clean vigorous world was our religion. And it didnot seem cold to us, because our lives were in it and because we werein love. 

There was no end to the plans for ourselves, for my writing, our home, the friends we wanted, the trips, the books and the music. And throughit all and from under it all there kept bursting up that feeling whichwe knew was the most important of all, the exultant realization that wetwo were just starting out. 

 * * * * *

When at last we came back home this feeling took a deeper turn. Inoticed a change in Eleanore. She had far less thought and time for menow, she seemed to be strangely absorbed in herself. Nearly all her timeand strength were given to our small apartment, in the same building asthat of her father. By countless feminine touches she was making it looklike the home she had planned. She was getting all in order. And thenone night she told me why. Her arms were close around me and her voicewas so low I could barely hear:

"There's going to be another soon--another one _of us_--do you hear?--avery tiny blessed one. "

I held her slowly tighter. 

"Oh, my darling girl, " I whispered. 

Suddenly I relaxed my hold, for I was afraid of hurting her now. In amoment all was so utterly changed. And as in that brave, quiet way ofhers she looked smiling steadily into my eyes, my throat contractedsharply. For into my mind leaped the memory of what the harbor had shownto me on that sultry hideous summer night in the tenement over inBrooklyn. And _that_ must happen to _my wife_!

"Oh, my dear, " she whispered, "if you only knew how much strength Istored up way over there in the mountains. "

So she had been thinking of this even then, and yet had told me nothing!

Here was the beginning of a long anxious period. Month after month Iwatched her quietly preparing. Slowly we drew into ourselves, while herfather and mine and Sue and our friends came and went, but matteredlittle. I wondered if Dillon ever felt this. As he came down to us inthe evenings from the apartment upstairs, where he and Eleanore hadmeant so much to each other only a year before, he gave no sign that hesaw any change. But one night after he had gone, Eleanore happened topick up the evening paper which had dropped from his bulging overcoatpocket. 

"Billy, come here, " she said presently. 

"What is it?"

"Look at this. "

The President of the United States had gone with Eleanore's father thatday in a revenue cutter over the harbor and had spoken of Dillon's greatdream in vigorous terms of approval. 

"And father was here this evening, " said Eleanore very slowly, "and yethe never told me a word. He saw that I'd heard nothing and he thought Ididn't care. Oh, Billy, I feel so ashamed. "

But she soon forgot the incident. 

My suspense grew sharp as the time drew near. I had a good doctor, I wassure of that, and he told me he had an excellent nurse. But what goodwere all these puny precautions? The tenement room in Brooklyn keptrising in my mind. 

She sat by the window that last night, and looking down on the far-awaylights of the river we planned another trip abroad. 

A few hours later I stood over her, holding her hand, and with her whitelips pressed close together and her eyes shut, she went through one ofthose terrible spasms. Then she looked up in the moment's relief. Andsuddenly here was that smile of hers. And she said low, between clenchedteeth, "Well, dearie, another starting out----"

CHAPTER XIX

The next morning, after the rush of relief at the news of Eleanore'ssafety and the strange sight of our tiny son, I felt keyed gloriouslyhigh, ready for anything under the sun. But there seemed to be nothingwhatever to do, I felt in the way each time that I moved, so I took tomy old refuge, work. And then into my small workroom came Eleanore'sfather for a long talk. He too had been up all night, his lean face washeavily marked from the strain, but their usual deep serenity had comeback into his quiet eyes. 

"Let's take a day off, " he said, smiling. "We're both so tired we don'tknow it. "

"Tired?" I demanded. 

"Yes, " he said, "you're tired--more than you've ever been in your life. You'll feel like a rag by to-morrow, and then I hope you'll take a goodrest. But to-day, while you are still way up, I want to talk about yourwork. Do you mind?"

"Mind? No, " I replied, a bit anxiously. "It's just what I'm trying tofigure out. "

"I know you are. You've figured for months and you've worked yourselfthin. I don't mind that, I like it, because I know the reason. But Idon't think the result has been good. It seems to me you've been soanxious to get on, because of this large family of yours, that you'veshut yourself up and written too fast, you've gotten rather away fromlife. Shall I go right on?"

"Yes, " I said, watching intently. 

"Well, " he continued, "you've been using what name you've already madeand writing short stories of harbor life. "

"That's what the editors want, " I said. "When a man makes a hit in onevein of writing they want that and nothing else. "

"At this rate you'll soon work out the vein, " he said. "I'd like to seeyou stop writing now, take time to find new ground--and dig. "

"There's not an awful lot of time, " I remarked. 

"My plan won't stop your making money, " he replied. "I want you to writeless, but get more pay. "

"That sounds attractive. How shall I do it?"

"By writing about big men, " he said. "I suggest that you try a series ofportraits of some of the big Americans and the America they know. "

I jumped up so suddenly he started. 

"What's the matter?" he asked with a glance at the door. "Did you hearanything?"

"Yes, " I said excitedly. "I heard a stunning title! The America TheyKnow!"

We discussed it all that morning and it appealed to me more and more. Later on, with Eleanore's help (for she grew stronger fast those days), I prevailed upon her father to let me practice upon himself as my firstsubject. I worked fast, my material right at hand, and within a fewweeks I had written the story of those significant incidents out ofthirty years of work and wanderings east and west that showed theAmerica he had known, his widening view. I did his portrait, so tospeak, with his back to the reader, letting the reader see what he saw. This story I sold promptly, and under the tonic of that success I wentinto the work with zest and vim. 

It filled the next four years of my life. It took the view I had had ofthe harbor and widened it to embrace the whole land, which I now sawaltogether through the eyes of the men at the top. 

The most central figure of them all, and by far the most difficult toattack, was a powerful New York banker, one of those invisible godswhose hand I had felt on the harbor. 

"The value of him to you, " Dillon said, "is that if you can only makehim talk you'll find him a born storyteller. The secret scandal of hislife is that once in a short vacation he tried to write a play. "

It was weeks before he would see me, and I had my first interview atlast only by getting on a night train which he had taken for Cleveland. There in his stateroom, cornered, he received me with a grim reluctance. And with a humorous glint in his eyes, "How much do you know about banking?" he asked. 

"Nothing, " I said frankly. And then I took a sudden chance. "What do youknow about writing?" I asked. 

"Nothing, " he said placidly. 

"Is that true? I thought you once wrote a play. " He sat up very quickly. "If you did, " I went on, "you've probably read some of Shakespeare'sstuff. It was strong stuff about strong men. If he were alive he'd writeabout you, but I'm sure that he wouldn't know about banking. That's onlyyour job. "

"What do you want of me, young man?" he inquired. "Is it my soul?"

"Not at all, " I answered. "It's the America you know, expressed in suchsimple human terms that even a young ignoramus like me will be able tounderstand it. Out of this big country a good many thousands of men, Isuppose, have come to you for money. Which are the most significantones?"

And I went on to explain my idea. Soon it began to take hold of him. Wetalked until after midnight, and later we had other talks. It was hardat first in the questioning to dodge the technical side of it all, thewidely intricate workings of that machine of credit of which he waschief engineer. But as he saw how eager I was to feel his view andbecome enthused, by degrees he humanized it all. And not only that, hetrusted me, he gave me the most intimate glimpses into this life of bigmoney, although when I dared to include such bits in the story that Ishowed him he calmly scratched them out and said:

"You're mistaken, young man. I didn't say that. "

As he talked I saw again that vision I had had on the North River docks. For into this man's office had come the men of the mines, the factoriesand the mills, the promoters of vast irrigations on prairies, buildersof railroads, real estate plungers, street traction promoters, department store owners, newspaper proprietors, politicians--thebuilders and boomers, the strong energetic men of the land. He showed metheir power and made me feel it was still but in its infancy. He made mefeel a dazzling future rushing upon us, a future of plenty still morecontrolled by the keen minds and wide visions of the powerful men at thetop. 

Of all these men and the rushing world of power they lived in, I haveonly a jumble of memories now. For my own life was a jumble--irregular, crowded and intense. In their offices, clubs and homes, in their motors, on yachts and trains, in Chicago and Pittsburgh and other cities, Ifollowed them, making my time suit theirs. Some had no use for me atall, but I found others delighted to talk--like the great Dakotaranchman who ordered twenty thousand copies of the issue in which hisstory appeared and scattered them like seeds of fame over the variouscounties of wheat, corn and alfalfa he owned. And in the main I hadlittle trouble. I met often that curious respect which so many men ofaffairs seem to have, God knows why, for a successful writer. 

I got in where men with ten times my knowledge were barred. I rememberwith a touch of shame the institute of scientific research where thechief of the place took a whole afternoon to show me around, and while Ilooked wise and tried to feel thrilled over glass tubes and jars andmicroscopes through which I peered at microbes, a simple old countrydoctor, one of the thousands of _common_ visitors, by my invitationfollowed humbly in my wake, murmuring from time to time, "Miraculous, by George, astounding!" And gratefully pressing my hand atthe end, "This has been the chance of a lifetime, " he said. 

Perhaps the principal reason why I got so warm a welcome was the name Ihad already made as a writer of glory stories. I liked these men; Iliked to enthuse over all the big things they were doing. And still trueto my efficiency god, the immense importance of getting things doneloomed so high in my view of life as to overshadow everything else. Mysense of moral values changed. 

It was a strange unmoral world. 

In the institute of science these keen laboratory gods (who had seemedso cold and comfortless to me but a few short years ago) were perfectinga cure for syphilis. Strong men were removing the wages of sin!

In Chicago I met the president of a huge industrial company who hadfound it necessary at times to use money on politicians. For this he hadbeen sent to jail, but later his influence got him out. Promptly he wasmade treasurer of another company. In one year, through his energy, nowmore intense than ever, the business of that company increased somethirty-five per cent. , whereupon the directors of the originalcorporation, after a stormy meeting in which two church deacon directorsfussed and fumed considerably, unanimously decided to ask him to comeback. He did. He told me the story quite frankly himself. I admired himtremendously. 

The head of a mining company sat in his office one afternoon and talkedof the labor problem. There was no right or wrong involved, he said, itwas simply a matter of force. Once when a strike threatened he hadcalled in a "labor expert" who had used money wholesale and there hadbeen no strike. 

"Well?" he asked, smiling. "What do you think of it?"

"I think I can't print it. " He still smiled. 

"Naturally not. But what do you think? If you yourself were responsibleto several hundred stockholders, what would you do? Risk a strike thatmight wipe out their dividends? Or would you resort to bribery"--hissmile slowly deepened--"which is a penal offense in this State?"

I found such questions cropping up almost everywhere I went. In theirdealings with the public and still more with their rivals, there was aruthless vigor that swept old-fashioned maxims aside. And I liked this, for it got things done! I was bored to find, as I often did, these menin their homes quite old-fashioned again to suit sober old wives whostill went to church. I remember one such elderly lady and the shock Iunwittingly gave her. She had deplored the decline of churches; her own, she said, was barely half full. And I then tried to cheer her by anaccount of my last story, which was of an advertising man, a genius whoin the last two years had made churches his especial line and by hisup-to-date methods had packed church after church on a commission basis. Her burst of disapproval almost drove me from the house. And there wereso many homes like that. Men who were perfect giants by day would becomethe gentlest babies at night, allowing their wives to read to them suchsentimental drivel as would have been kicked from the office by day. 

"But God knows they need such vacuous homes, " I reflected, "to rest in. "

I had never dreamed before how strenuous men's lives could be. One dayin the New York office of a big plunger in real estate I pointed to amap on the wall. 

"What are all those lots marked 'vacant' for?" I asked him. "I never sawmany vacant lots in that part of town. " He grinned cheerfully. 

"Anything under four stories is vacant to us, " he answered, "because itpays to buy it, tear it down and build something higher. "

That was the way they crowded their cities, and as with their cities, sowith their lives. One story that interested me most was of the weirdAmerica which a renowned nerve specialist knew. To him came these menbroken down, some on the verge of insanity. He gave me stories of theirlives, of his glimpses into their straining minds, he described theirpathetic efforts to rest, their strenuous attempts to relax. He himselfhad some mysterious ailment, his hands kept trembling while he talked. His wife said he hadn't had a vacation of over a week in eleven years. 

From such men I would turn to exuberant lives, like that of the Tammanyleader now dead, who gave a ten-thousand-dollar banquet one night, inthe Ten Eyck in Albany, in honor of the newsboy who every morning fortwenty-two winters had brought morning papers to him in bed in his hotelroom. Or like that of the millionaire merchant who told me with the mostnaïve pride of the eleven hundred electric lights in his new home onFifth Avenue, and of how the bathrooms of both his large daughters werefitted in solid silver throughout. 

"Not plated, understand, " he said. "I told the architect while he was atit to put in the real solid stuff--and plenty of it!"

Through this varied throng of successes, this rich abundance of types, Iranged with an ever deepening zest. As a hunter of game I watched thatendless human procession on and off the front pages of papers, the menwho were for the moment news. Often small people too would bethere--like the telephone girl from a suburb, who for one day, as themost important witness in a sensational case of graft, was suddenlybefore the whole country and then as suddenly dropped out of sight. Infact, that was now my view of the land, figures emerging from darkobscure multitudes up into a bright circle of light. 

And I took this front-page view of New York. I saw it as a city wherebig exceptional people were endlessly doing sensational things, both inthe making and spending of money. I saw it not only as a cluster of tallbuildings far downtown, but uptown as well a towering pile of richhotels and apartments, a region that sparkled gaily at night, lightsflashing from tens of thousands of rooms, in and out of which, I feltdelightedly, millions of people had passed through the years. I loved tolook up at these windows at night, at the sheer inscrutability of them. For behind these twinkling masses I knew were all things tragic, comic--people laughing, fighting, hating, scheming, dreaming, loving, living. I thought of that row of cabins de luxe that I had seen on theChristmas boat. Here was the same thing magnified, a monstrouscaravansary with but one question over its doors: "Have You Got thePrice?"

Once I had seen a harbor. Then it had grown into a port. And now I saw ametropolis, the hub of a successful land. 

And through this gay city of triumph I moved, myself a success, and myview of the whole was colored by that. My life as an observer wassprinkled with personal moments that made me see everything in highlights. I would watch the life of a street full of people, and I myselfwould be on my way to an interview with some noted man or coming awayfrom one who had given me stuff that I knew would write up big--I knewjust how! Or at a corner newsstand I would catch a glimpse of my name onthe cover of some magazine. Again I would be hurrying home, or into aneighboring florist's or a theater ticket office, or diving into thejolly whirl of the large Fifth Avenue toy shop in which I took anunflagging delight. In my mind would be thoughts of a pillow fight or along evening with Eleanore, or we would be having friends to dine orgoing out to dinner. 

For Eleanore had been swift to use my success to broaden both our lives. Young and adorably happy, eagerly alive, she did for me what she haddone for her father, filling my life with other lives. She was an artistin living. It was a joy to see her make out a list of people to be askedto dine. Her father, once watching the process, remarked to me in low, solemn tones:

"She's a regular social chemist--who has never had an explosion. "

He was often on the list, and through him and his many friends and theones I made through my writing, by degrees our circle widened. We metall kinds of people, for Eleanore hated "sets" and "cliques. " We met notonly successful men but (God help us sometimes) we also met their wives. We met successful writers, artists and musicians, and a few people ofthe stage. We met visitors from the West and from half the big cities ofEurope. We furbished up our French and German, our knowledge of booksand pictures and plays--_successful_ books and pictures and plays. 

Through Eleanore's father and his work our minds were still held to thepast, to the harbor which had taken me, bruised and blind and petty, andlifted me up and taught me to live, had given me my work, my home and mynew god. I was grateful, I was proud, I was in love and I felt strong. And my view of the harbor in those days was of a glorious symbol of thepower of mind over matter, and of the mighty speeding up of a world ofcivilization and peace, a successful world, strong, broad, tolerant, sweeping on and bearing us with it. 

So we adventured gaily, not deeper down, but higher and higher up intolife. 

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

We had been married four years. 

At the end of a crisp November day I was just about starting home. Iremember how keenly alive I felt, how tingling with bodily health, andabove all how successful. 

I had had such a successful day. I had written hard all morning and mywork had been going splendidly. I had lunched downtown with the manwhose life I was writing that month, a man of astounding fertility, whohad started fifteen years ago with a small hotel in a western town, hadmade money, had built a larger hotel, had made money, had moved to alarger town and bought a still larger hotel, had made money, had movedto Chicago, New York, had made money. And the America he knew was madeup of people who themselves had made their money so suddenly they had tocome to hotels to spend it. The stories that he told me, both scandalousand otherwise, of these men and women who shot up rich and diamondy outof this booming country of ours, had a range and a richness of colorthat had held me delighted through many long talks. During luncheon hehad told some of his best, and had given me permission to print, with adiscreet twist or so to disguise them, certain intimate episodes in thefirst fat years of men whose names were by-words now all over the land. I could already see that story selling on the newsstands. 

From this man I had come uptown to a branch of the Y. M. C. A. , whereafter an hour of hand-ball and a plunge in the swimming tank I had goneto a room downstairs, to which ambitious youngsters came for free advicefrom an expert who told them how to get on in life. His room was aconfessional. He would cross-examine each suppliant hard, make adiagnosis of each one and then give him advice as to what to do--whetheror not to throw over his job, what kind of work he was suited for best. The America he knew was made up of these small human units, somepitiably or absurdly small, but all anxiously straining upward. And theytoo appealed to me. 

For I was so successful now that I was growing mellow. From certain bigmen I had written about I had taken a spacious breadth of view thatincluded a deep indulgence for all these skurrying pigmies. Poor littledevils, give 'em a chance, especially those among them who had "bim"enough to want a chance, to wonder why they were not getting on and wantto do something about it. And so I had formed the habit of dropping inoften at this room, hearing its confessions and now and then helping getsomeone a job. As the swimming tank made my body tingle, so this placeaffected my soul. It warmed me to do all I could for some fellow, somedecent kid who was down on his luck. Besides, some confessions were gemsof their kind, glimpses into human lives, hard struggles, wildambitions. I meant to write them up some day. In fact, I meant to writeeverything up, I felt everything waiting for my pen. 

And as I went down to the coat-room, the thought I had had so oftenlately came again into my mind. I too would soon throw over my job, leave articles and write fiction--my old Paris dream. But what a wideand varied experience of life I had gathered since those ingenuous Parisdays. Yes, I would do it real and big, out of the big life I had known. And my heroes would no longer be watching at my elbow to point to thechoicest bits and say, "You're mistaken, young man, I never said that. "No, all those lifelike human touches would stay in. Stories kept comingup in my mind, one especially of late. As I stood in line for my hat andcoat I thought of it now and grew so absorbed I forgot that I wasstanding in a line of insignificant clerks--until the one ahead of me, who had just come in from the street, asked the chap in front of him:

"Say, Gus, did you see the suffragettes? Their parade's just going by. "

This brought me down from the clouds with a jerk. For I had meant to seethat parade. Sue was in it, in it hard. Suffrage was her latest fad. 

"Naw, " growled Gus. "If I was the mayor and they came to me for a permitto march I'd tell 'em to go and buy corsets. That's their complaint. They can't get kissed so they want to vote. " The other one chuckled:

"I saw one who can have my vote--and all I'll ask is a better look. Believe me, some silk stockings!"

As they went away I glared after them. "Damn little muts, " I thought. Iwas rather in favor of suffrage, at least I felt indulgent about it. Whyshouldn't I be? The great thing was to keep your mind open and kindly, to feel contempt for nothing whatever. And because I felt contempt forno thing or person in all the world, I now glared with the most uttercontempt on these narrow-minded little clerks. 

Then I hurried out and over to Fifth Avenue, where the throb of thedrums was still to be heard. And there I found to my surprise that in avery real sense this parade was different from anything that I had everseen before. I was more than indulgent, I was excited. And by what? Notby the marching lines of figures, fluttering banners, booming bands, norjust by the fact that these marchers were women, and women quite franklydressed for effect, so that the whole rhythmic mass had a feminine colorand dash that made it all gay and delightful. No, there was somethingdeeper. And that something, I finally made out, was this. These womenand girls were all deeply thrilled by the feeling that for the firsttime in their lives they were doing something all together--for an ideathat each one of them had thought rather big and stirring before, butnow, as each felt herself a part of this moving, swinging multitude, shefelt the idea suddenly loom so infinitely larger and more compellingthan before that she herself was astounded. Here for the first time inmy life I felt the power of mass action. 

And as presently I started home and the intensity of it was gone, therewas an added pleasure to me in remembering how I had felt it. Anotherproof of my breadth of mind. I hurried home to dinner. 

As I entered our apartment I gave a long, low mysterious whistle. Andafter a moment another whistle, which tried hard to be mysterious, answered mine from another room. Then there were stealthy footstepswhich ended in a sudden charge, and my wee son, "the Indian, " hurled meonto a sofa, where, to use his expression, we "rush-housed" each other. We did this almost every night. 

When the big time was about over Eleanore appeared:

"Come, Indian, it's time for bed. " She led him off protesting and blewme back a kiss from the door. 

She had developed wonderfully, this bewitching wife of mine, this quietable one in her work, this smiling humorous one in her life, thiswatchful, joyous, intimate one in the hours that shut everything out. Sue said I idolized my wife, that I saw her all perfection, "without oneredeeming vice. " Not at all. I knew her vices well enough. I knew shecould get distinctly cross when a new gown came home all wrong. I knewthat she could lie to me, I had caught her at it several times when shesaid she was feeling finely and then confessed to me the next day, "Ihad a splitting headache last night. " In fact, she had any number ofvices--queer, mysterious feminine moods when she quite shamelessly shutme out. She didn't half take care of herself, she went places when sheshould have stayed at home. And finally, she was slow at dressing. Placidly seated in front of her mirror she could spend an entire hour indoing her soft luxuriant hair. 

I went over all these vices now as I lay back on the sofa. Idolize her?Not at all. I knew her. We were married, thank God. 

Then she came back into the room. She was smiling in rather a curiousway, an expectant way, and I noticed that her color was unusually high. Eleanore always dressed so well, but to-night she had outdone herself. From her trim blue satin slippers to the demure little band of blue ather throat she was more enchantingly fresh than ever. Suffragettes andthat sort of thing were all very well on the Avenue. Give me Eleanore athome. 

"Did you see the parade?" she inquired. 

"Yes. "

"Did you see me?"

I fairly jumped!

"You?" I demanded. "Were you in that march?"

"I most certainly was, " she said quietly. Having shot her bolt she wasregarding me gravely now, with the merest glint of amused delightsomewhere in her gray-blue eyes. "Why not?" she asked. "I believe in it, I want the vote. Why shouldn't I march? I paraded, " she added serenely, "in the college section right up near the head of the line. That's whyI'm home so early. I'm afraid I was quite conspicuous, for you see I'mrather small and I had to take long swinging strides to keep in step. But I soon got used to it, and I thoroughly enjoyed the cheers. We wavedback at them with our flags. "

"But, " I cried, "my darling wife! Why didn't you tell me about itahead?"

"Because"--she came close up to me and said quite confidentially, "wedo these things all by ourselves. You don't mean to say that you mindit, dear?"

I lost about five seconds and then I did exactly right. I took her in myarms and laughed and called my wife by many names and said she couldn'tworry me, that I didn't mind it in the least, was proud of her and soon. In short, to use a slang expression, I distinctly got away with it. Moreover, I soon felt what I said. I was honestly rather proud of mywife for having had the nerve to march. It must have been quite astruggle, for she was no born marcher. 

And I was glad that I was proud. Another proof of my tolerance--whichwas the more grateful to me just now because a magazine man I admiredhad genially hinted the other day that I was rather narrow. 

"Did you see Sue?" I inquired. 

"Only for a moment, " she said. "Sue was one of the marshals and she wasall up and down the lines. She's coming to supper with many paraders. "

"A crowd of women here? I'm off!"

"No you're not. She's bringing some men paraders too. "

Men paraders! Now I could smile. I had earned the right, I had beenbroad. But after all, there are limits. I could see those chaps paradingwith women. I knew them, I had seen them before, for Sue had oftenbrought them here. I enjoyed myself immensely--till Eleanore shotanother bolt. 

"Smile on, funny one, " she said. "You'll be in line yourself in a year. "

"I will not be in line!"

"I wonder. " She looked at me in a curious way. The mirth went slowly outof her eyes. "There are so many queer new ideas crowding in all aroundus, " she said. "And I know you, Billy, oh, so well--so much better thanyou know yourself. I know that when you once feel a thing you're justthe kind to go into it hard. I'm not speaking of suffrage now--that'sonly one nice little part. I mean this whole big radical movement--allthe kind of thing your friend Joe Kramer stood for. " She put her armsabout my neck. "Don't get too radical, husband mine--you're so nice andfunny now, my love. "

I regarded her anxiously:

"Has this parade gone to your head--or has Sue been talking to youagain?"

"I lunched with Sue----"

"I knew it! And now she's coming here to supper--bringing men paraders!"

"And they'll all be rabidly hungry, " said Eleanore with a sudden change. She went quickly in to see the cook and left me to grim meditation. 

I a radical? I smiled. And my slight uneasiness passed away, as Ithought about my sister. 

CHAPTER II

Poor old Sue. What queer friends she had, what a muddled life comparedto ours. What a vague confused development, jumping from one idea toanother, never seeing any job through, forever starting all over againwith the same feverish absorption in the next new radical fad. High-browdramatics, the settlement movement, the post-impressionists, socialism, votes for women, one thing after the other pell mell. She would workherself all up, live hard, talk, organize, think and feel till hernerves went all to pieces, and then she would come to us for a rest andlaugh at us for our restfulness and at herself for the state she was in. That was one thing at least she had learned--to laugh at herself--shecould be deliciously humorous. And Eleanore, meeting her on that ground, would quiet her and steady her down. 

We had grown very fond of Sue. We knew her life was not easy at home. Alone over there with poor old Dad and feeling herself anchored down, she would still at intervals rebel--against his sticking to his dulljob, against her own dependence, against the small monthly allowancewhich without my father's knowledge they still had from me. 

"Let me earn my own living!" she would exclaim. "Why shouldn't I? I'mtwenty-six--and I'm working hard enough as it is--the Lord knows! I'morganizing every day and making speeches half my nights. Other girlstake pay for that. Now Father, please be sensible. I'm going to take agood salaried job. "

But then Dad, whose mind was so old and rigid, so much less tolerantthan mine, would grow excited or, still worse, ashamed that he couldn'tmake money enough to give her all she wanted. And that desperate hungrylove with which he clung to her these latter days would in the end makeher give in. For under all her radical talk Sue had the kindest heart inthe world. 

Eleanore did her best to help. She was always having Dad over to dinner, and we had a room which she called his, where he would come and stay theweek-end. At six o'clock each Saturday night he would arrive with hissatchel. 

"Daughter-in-law, " he would announce, "my other daughter's _agin_ thelaw, she's gone off revolooting. Can you take a decent old gentleman inout of the last century? Don't change any plans on my account. If you'regoing out to dinner just tell the cook to give me a snack and a cup oftea, and then I'll light a good cigar and read the works of my greatson. Go right ahead as if I wasn't here. "

If we had he would have been furious. Eleanore always made it hisnight--and no quiet evening, either. When we didn't take him out to aplay she invited people to dinner--young people, for he liked them best. And late on Sunday morning the "Indian" would wake him up, would watchhim shave and dress and breakfast, and then they would be off to thePark. We had named our small son after Dad and they were the mostsplendid chums. They had any number of secrets. 

Eleanore too had made Sue use our apartment. Sue called it her Manhattanclub and brought her friends here now and then--"to stir you people up, "she said. But this did not disturb me, I felt too secure in life. Andwith a safe, amused and slightly curious attitude I found Sue quite atonic. I liked to hear her knock my big men in her cocksure superiorway. It was mighty good fun. And every now and then by mistake she wouldhit on something that was true. 

I found something too in her ideas. This suffrage business, forexample. She had stuck to this hobby quite a while, and through it shehad reached the conviction that women would never get the vote until thegreat mass of working girls were drawn into the movement. So she hadgone in for working girls' clubs, and from clubs into trade unions andfrom trade unions into strikes. There had been a strike of laundry girlswhich for a week was the talk of the town. Sue and some of her suffragefriends had organized meetings every night, and in a borrowed automobileshe had rushed from meeting to meeting with two laundry women, meagerforlorn-looking creatures who stood up much embarrassed and awkwardlytold about their lives. One of them, a young widow, had gone home fromwork one night at eleven and found that her small baby had died ofconvulsions during her absence. It was grim, terrible stuff of its kind, and Sue was so intensely wrought up you'd have thought there was nothingelse in the world. But the strike stopped as suddenly as it began, andthe two women whose names she had brought into headlines were refusedjobs wherever they went. Sue tried to help them for a while, until thissuffrage parade came along, when she went into this equally hard andquite forgot their existence. 

And then Eleanore took them up. Quietly and as a matter of course, shetook their troubles on her hands, sent one to a hospital and got theother work, looked into their wretched home affairs and had them comeoften to see her. And this kind of thing was happening often, Sue takingup and dropping what Eleanore then took up and put through. I comparedthem with a glow of pride. 

Eleanore's way was so sane and sure. She looked upon society much as shedid upon our son, who had frequent little ailments but through them allwhat a glorious growth, to watch it was a perpetual joy. I rememberonce, when in his young stomach there were some fearful goings on, Eleanore's remarking:

"Now if Sue had a child with a stomach in trouble, I suppose her waywould be to quickly remove the entire stomach and put some new radicalthing in its place. "

And then she went to the medicine chest, and a vastly comforted Indianwas soon cheerfully sitting up in bed. 

Eleanore could help others, I felt, because she had first helpedherself, had tackled the mote in her own eye, from the time when she hadgone down to the harbor to get her roots, as she called it. She was awonderful manager, our budget was carefully worked out. And she hadherself so well in hand she could put herself behind herself and smileclearly out on life. 

"When Eleanore takes up a charity case, " said her father, "she turns itinto a person at once, and later into an intimate friend. "

He himself took a quiet interest in all her charity cases. They wouldoften talk them over at night, and in his easy careless way he wouldturn over all his spare money to help in the work. Eleanore wouldprotest at times, and tell him how utterly foolish he was in not puttingmoney aside for himself. But soon, deep in another case of poignanthuman misery, she would throw all caution to the winds and use herfather's money--every dollar he could spare. That was another vice shehad. 

How she hated all the red tape in that huge network of institutions bywhich New York City provides "relief. " She never dropped a case of hersinto that cumbrous relief machine and then let it slip out of her sight. She did the hard thing, she followed it up. She had learned, as I had inmy work, to "get on the inside" of this secretive city, to go to thegods behind it all and so have her cases shoved. One day when one ofthem, a woman, was in a hospital so desperately ill that her very lifedepended on being moved to a private room--"It can't be done, " said thesuperintendent. Eleanore took the subway downtown to the Wall Streetoffice of the man who was the hospital's principal backer. She foundhis outer office crowded with men who were waiting to see him onbusiness. "He can't see you, " she was told. Then she scribbled this onher card:

"I want none of your money, a little of your influence and one minute ofyour time on behalf of a woman who is dying. "

About twenty minutes later that woman was in a private room. 

It is hard to stop talking about my wife. But to return to my sister:

 * * * * *

Into my reverie that night Sue burst with a dozen radical friends. Others kept arriving, and our small rooms were soon a riot of color andchatter. Banners were stacked against the wall, bright yellow ribbonswere everywhere, faces were flushed and happily tired. Eleanore sat ather coffee urn, cups and saucers and plates went around, and peoplestill too excited to rest stood about eating hungrily. The talking wasfast and furious now. I listened, watched their faces. 

These "radicals, " it seemed to me, had talked straight on both day andnight ever since the evenings years ago when one of their earliestcoteries had gathered in our Brooklyn home. And talking they hadmultiplied and ramified all over the town. There was nothing underheaven their fingers did not itch to change. Here close by my side werethree of them, two would-be Ibsen actresses and one budding playwrightwho had had two Broadway failures and one Berkeley Lyceum success. Butwere they talking of plays? Not at all. They talked of the RussianRevolution. It had died down in the last few years, and they wanted tohelp stir it up again by throwing some more American money into thesmoldering embers. To do this they planned to whip into new life "TheFriends of Russian Freedom. "

That was it, I told myself, these people were all friends ofrevolutions. Vaguely as I watched them now I felt I was seeing theparlor side, the light and fluffy outer fringe, of something ratherdangerous. I thought again of that parade and my impression of massforce. No danger in that, it was dressy and safe. But some of theseyoungsters did not stop there, they went in for stirring up people inrags, mass force of a very different kind. Here was a sculptor socialistwho openly bragged that he'd had a hand in filling Union Square one daywith a seething mass of unemployed, and then when some poor crazedfanatic threw a bomb, our socialist friend, as he himself smilingly putit, never once stopped running until he reached his studio. 

It was this kind of thing that got on my nerves. For I pitied theunwieldy poor, the numberless muddle-headed crowds down there in thetenements, and it seemed to me perfectly criminal that a lot of theseyoung high-brows should be allowed to stir them up. Their own thinkingwas so muddled, their views of life so out of gear. 

I a radical? No chance!

While they chattered on excitedly, I thought of my trip uptown on the"El" that afternoon, a trip that I had made hundreds of times. Coming asI usually was from some big man or other, whose busy office and whosemind was a clean, brilliant illustration of what efficiency can be, Iwould sit in the car and idly watch the upper story windows we passed, with yellow gas jets flaring in the cave-like rooms behind them. There Ihad glimpses of men and girls at long crowded tables making coats, pants, vests, paper flowers, chewing-gum, five-cent cigars. I sawcountless tenement kitchens, dirty cooking, unmade beds. These glimpsesfollowed one on the other in such a dizzying torrent they merged intoone moving picture for me. And that picture was of crowds, crowds, crowds--of people living frowzily. 

This was poverty. And it was like some prodigious swamp. What could youdo about it? You could pull out individuals here and there, as Eleanoredid. I considered that a mighty fine job--for a woman or a clergyman. But to go at it and drain the swamp was a very different matter. Youcouldn't do it by easy preaching of patent cure-alls, nor by stirring upclass hatred through rabid attacks upon big men. No, this was a job forthe big men themselves, men who would go at this human swamp asEleanore's father had gone at the harbor--quietly and slowly, with anengineer's precision. He had been at it six solid years, but he stillremarked humbly, "We've only begun. "

Then from thinking of big men I thought of the one I had seen that day, and of my story about him. It was just in the stage I liked, where Icould feel it all coming together. Incidents, bits of character and neatlittle turns of speech rose temptingly before my mind. 

Presently, through the clamor around me, I heard "the Indian" crying. All this chatter had waked him up. I saw Eleanore go in to him and soonI heard the crying stop, and I knew she was telling him a story, a nicesleepy one to quiet him down. 

What an infernal racket these people were making about the world. I wenton thinking about my work. 

CHAPTER III

"You two, " said Sue, when at last her friends had gone away, "have builtup a wall of contentment around you a person couldn't break through withan axe. "

"Have a little, " I suggested. 

"Stay all night, " said Eleanore. 

"No, thanks, " said Sue. "I promised Dad that I'd be home. "

And then instead of going home she sprawled lazily on the sofa with herhead upon one elbow, and settled in for some more talk. But her talk wasdifferent to-night. She usually talked about herself, but to-night shetalked of us instead, of our contemptible content. And presently throughher talk I felt that she had some surprise to spring. In a few momentsEleanore felt it too, I could tell that by the vigilant way she keptglancing up from her knitting. 

"I think, " I was remarking, "we're a pretty liberal-minded pair. "

"That's it, " said Sue. "You're liberals!" What utter disdain she threwinto the word. "And what's more you're citizens. In all thesemovements, " she went on, "you always find two classes--citizens andcriminals. You two are both born citizens. "

"What's the difference?" I inquired. 

"Citizens, " said Sue impressively, "are ready to _vote_ for what theybelieve in. Criminals are ready to get arrested and go to jail. "

Eleanore looked up at her. 

"Who gave you that?" she asked. Sue looked a little taken back, but onlyfor a moment. 

"One of the criminals, " she said. Her voice was carefully casual now buther eyes were a little excited. "He's a man who made up his mind that hewanted to get way down to the bottom, and see how it feels to be downthere. So he took the very worst job he could find. For two years he wasa stoker--on ships of all kinds all over the world. And now that heknows just how it feels, he has an office down on the docks where he'sgetting the stokers and dockers together--getting them ready for astrike--on your beloved harbor. "

"Joe Kramer, " said Eleanore quietly. Sue gave a sudden, nervous start. 

"Eleanore, " she severely rejoined, "sometimes you're simply uncanny--theway you quietly jump at a thing!"

Eleanore had gone on with her knitting. I rose and lit a cigarette. Icould feel Sue's eyes upon me. So _this_ was her infernal surprise! J. K. Banging into my life again!

"How long has Joe been here?" I asked. 

"About five months, " Sue answered. 

"He might have looked me up, " I said. 

"He doesn't want to look anyone up, I've only seen him once myself. Hehas simply buried himself down there. Why don't you go and see him, Billy?" she added, with a quick glance at Eleanore. "He won't amuse youthe way we do. He's one of the real criminals now. "

Still Eleanore did not look up. 

"What's his address?" I asked gruffly. Sue gave it to me andgood-humoredly yawned and said she must be getting home. 

"Good-night, dear, " said Eleanore. She had risen and come to the door. "What a love of a hat you're wearing. It's a new one, isn't it? I caughtsight of it in the parade. "

But the smile which my tall sister threw back at us from the doorwayhad nothing whatever to do with hats. It said as plainly as in words:

"Now, you cozy liberals, go over and touch _that_ spot if you dare. "

When she had gone I took up a book and tried to read. But I soongloomily relapsed. Would J. K. Never leave me alone? What was he doingwith my harbor? Why should I look him up, confound him--he hadn'tbothered his head about me. But I knew that I _would_ look him up andwould find him more disturbing than ever. How he did keep moving on. No, not on, but down, down--until now he had bumped the bottom!

"Are you going to see him?"

Glancing sharply up, I saw Eleanore carefully watching my face. 

"Oh, I suppose so, " I replied. She bent again to her knitting. 

"He must be a strange kind of a person, " she said. 

CHAPTER IV

I slept little that night, and my work the next morning went badly. So, after wasting an hour or two, I decided to stop. I would go and see Joeand be done with it. 

What was he doing with my harbor? The address Sue had given me was downon the North River, my old hunting ground. The weather had turned coldover-night, and when I came to the waterfront I felt the big raw breathof the sea. I had hardly been near the harbor in years. It had becomefor me a deep invisible corner-stone upon which my vigorous world wasbuilt. I had climbed up into the airy heights, I had been writing ofmillionaires. And coming so abruptly now from my story of life in richhotels, the place I had once glorified looked bleak and naked, elemental. Down to the roots of things again. 

I came to a bare wooden building, climbed some stairs and entered alarge, low-ceilinged room which was evidently a meeting hall. Chairswere stacked along the walls and there was a low platform at one end. AsI lingered there a moment, by habit my eyes took in the details. Thelocal color was lurid enough. On the walls were foreign pictures, one ofthe anarchist Ferrer being executed in Spain, and another of an Italianmob shaking their fists and yelling like demons at a bloated hideouspriest. There were posters in which flaming torches, blood-red flags andbarricades and cannon belching clouds of smoke stood out in heavy blacksand reds. And all this foreign violence was made grimly real in itspurpose here by the way these pictures centered around the largestposter, which was of an ocean liner with all its different kinds ofworkers gathered together in one mass and staring fixedly up at theship. 

Through a door in a board partition I went into a narrow room from whichtwo dirty windows looked out upon the docks below. This room was crampedand crowded. Newspapers and pamphlets lay heaped on the floor, and inthe corners were four desks, at one of which three men, whom I learnedlater to be an Italian, an Englishman and a Spaniard, were talkingtogether intensely. They took no notice of my entrance, for many othervisitors, burly, sooty creatures, were constantly straggling in and out. 

I saw Joe at a desk in one corner. Looking doubly tall and lean andstooped, and with a tired frown on his face, he sat there with hissleeves rolled up slowly pounding out a letter on the typewriter beforehim. On top of his desk were huge ledgers, and over them upon hooks onthe wall hung bunches of letters from other ports. It all gave me aheavy impression of dull daily drudgery. And in this Joe was so absorbedthat he took no notice of my presence, although I now stood close behindhim. When at last he did look up and I got a full view of his face, withits large, familiar features, tight-set jaw and deep-set eyes, I wasstartled at its gauntness. 

"Hello, Joe----"

"Hello. " A dullish red came into his face and then a slight frown. Hehalf rose from his seat. "Hello, Bill, " he repeated. "What's brought youhere?"

He appeared a little dazed at first, then anything but glad to see me. The thought of our old college days flashed for a moment into my mind. How far away they seemed just now. Through our first few awkward remarkshe lapsed back into such a tired, worn indifference that I was soon onthe point of leaving. But that bony gauntness in his face, and all itshowed me he had been through, gave him some right to his rudeness, Ithought. So I changed my mind and stuck to my purpose of having it allout with Joe and learning what he was about. Persisting in myfriendliness my questions slowly drew him out. 

Since I had seen him five years ago he had continued his writing, but ashe had grown steadily more set on writing only what he called "the truthabout things, " the newspapers had closed their doors. While I had goneup he had gone down, until finally throwing up in disgust "this wholefool game of putting words on paper, " he had made up his mind to throwin his life with the lives of the men at the bottom. So for two years hehad shoveled coal in the stokeholes of ships by day and by night, he hadmixed with stokers of every race, from English, French and Germans toRussians and Italians, Spaniards, Hindus, Coolies, Greeks. He had workedand eaten and slept in their holes, he had ranged the slums of all theseas. And of all this he spoke in short, commonplace phrases, still inthat indifferent tone, as though personal stories were a bore. 

"But look here, Joe, " I asked at the end, "what's the good of livinglike this? What the devil can you do?"

I still remember the look he gave me, the weary remoteness of it. Butall he said was, "Organize strikes. "

"Here?"

"Everywhere. "

"Of stokers?"

"No, of all industries. "

"For higher pay, eh, and shorter hours. "

Another brief look. 

"No, for revolution, " he said. 

Briefly, in reply to my questions, he explained how he and his friendshad already induced some twelve thousand stokers and dockers to leavetheir old trade unions and enroll themselves as members of this newinternational body, which was to embrace not only one trade but all thelabor connected with ships--ships of all nations. He was here doing theadvance work. As soon as the ground was made ready, he said, some of thebigger leaders would come. Then there would be mass meetings here andpresently a general strike. And as the years went on there would besimilar strikes in all trades and in all countries, until at some timenot many years off there would be such labor rebellions as wouldparalyze the industrial world. And out of this catastrophe the workerswould emerge into power to build up a strange new world of their own. 

This was what Joe saw ahead. He seemed to be seeing it while he spoke, with a hard, clear intensity that struck me rather cold. Here was nomere parlor talk, here was a man who lived what he said. 

"You comfortable people, " he said, "are so damn comfortable you'reblind. You see nothing ahead but peace on earth and a nice smoothevolution--with a lot of steady little reforms. You've got so youhonestly can't believe there's any violence left in the world. You're asblind as most folks were five years before the Civil War. But what's theuse talking?" he ended. "You can't understand all this. " Again myirritation rose. 

"No, I can't say I do, " I replied. "To stir up millions of men of thatkind and then let 'em loose upon the world strikes me as absolutelymad!"

"I knew it would. "

"Look here, Joe, how are _you_ so sure about all this? Hasn't it everstruck you that you're getting damnably narrow?" He smiled. 

"I don't care much if I'm narrow, " he said. 

"You think it's good for you, being like this?"

"I don't care if it's good for me. "

"Don't you want to see anything else?"

"Not in your successful world. "

"Well, J. K. , I'm sorry, " I retorted hotly. "Because I'd like to seeyour world, I honestly would! I'm not like you, I'm always ready to beshown!"

"All right, come and see it. Why don't you write up Jim Marsh?" Hesmiled as he named the notorious leader of the whole organization. "He'll be here soon, and in his line he has been a mighty successfulman. All up and down the U. S. A. Jim's name has been in headlines andJim himself has been in jail. A successful revolutionist. So why not addhim to your list? Write up the America _he_ knows. " There was achallenge in Joe's voice. 

"All right, perhaps I will, " I said. At least I had him talking now. "Come out to lunch and tell me some more. "

"I don't want any lunch. "

Something in the way he said that made me look at him quickly. Heappeared to me now not only thin but tense and rather feverish. Hisnerves were plainly all on edge. He had smoked one cigarette afteranother. 

"I've got a lot of work to-day, " he added restlessly. "Not only thesedamn letters to write--I've got to make up our paper besides--it goes tothe printer to-morrow. Here, take a copy with you. "

And he handed me the last week's issue. It was a crude and flimsyaffair, with its name, in scarehead letters, "WAR SURE. " I glanced itover in silence a moment. What a drop for Joe, from what he had been, tothis wretched violent little sheet, this muckraker of the ocean world. 

"Not like the harbor _you_ painted, " he said. 

"No, " I answered shortly. 

"Do you want another look at your harbor?"

I eyed him for a moment:

"All right--I'll look----"

"Fine business. " He had risen now, and a gleam of the old likable Joecame for a moment into his eyes. 

"Meet me to-morrow at seven a. M. And let's look at some of itsfailures, " he said. 

CHAPTER V

"Did you see him?" Eleanore asked that night. 

"Yes--I saw him----"

I could feel her waiting, but I could not bring myself to talk. Eleanorewouldn't like J. K. She wouldn't like what I had told him I'd do. I wassorry now that I had, it was simply looking for trouble. I damned thatchallenge in Joe's voice. Why did he always get hold of me so?

"How did he look? Is he much changed?" Eleanore asked me quietly. 

"Yes. He looks half sick--and old. He's been through a good deal, " Ianswered. 

"Did he talk about that?"

"Yes"--I hesitated--"and of what he wants to show me, " I said. Eleanorelooked quickly up. 

"Are you going to see him soon again?"

"Yes--to-morrow morning--to have a look at his stoker friends. I want tohave just one good look at the life that has made him what he is. That'sall--that's all it amounts to----"

There was another silence. Then she came over behind my chair and I feltthe cool quiet of her hand as she slowly stroked my forehead. 

"You look tired, dear, " she said. 

 * * * * *

Just before daylight the next morning I rose and dressed, swallowed somecoffee and set out. I took a surface car downtown. 

I had not been out at this hour in years. And as in my present mood, troubled and expectant, I watched the streets in the raw half-light, they looked as utterly changed to me as though they were streets of adifferent world. The department store windows looked unreal. Their softrich lights had been put out, and in this cold hard light of dawn alltheir blandishing ladies of wax appeared like so many buxom ghosts. Menwere washing the windows. Women and girls were hurrying by, and as someof them stopped for a moment to peer in at these phantoms of fashion, their own faces looked equally waxen to me. A long, luxurious motorpassed with a man and a woman in evening clothes half asleep in eachother's arms. An old man with a huge pack of rags turned slowly andstared after them. The day's work was beginning. Peddlers trundledpush-carts along, newspaper vendors opened their stands, milk wagons andtrucks from the markets came by, some on the gallop. Our car had filledwith people now. Men and boys clung to the steps behind and women andgirls were packed inside, most of them hanging to the straps. How badlyand foolishly dressed were these girls. There must be thousands of themout. Two kept tittering inanely. All the rest were silent. 

By the time that I reached the docksheds the day was breaking over theirroofs. It was freezing cold, and the chill was worse in the dock that Ientered. I buttoned my ulster tighter. The big place was dark and empty. The dockers, I learned from the watchman, had quit work at threeo'clock, for a few tons of fruit was all the freight that remained to beloaded. The ship was to sail at nine o'clock. 

The stokers had not yet gone aboard. I found about a hundred of themhuddled along the steel wall of the shed. Some of them had old leathergrips or canvas bags, but many had no luggage at all. A few wore seedyovercoats, but the greater part had none, they stood with their hands intheir ragged pockets, shivering and stamping. Most of them wereundersized, some tough, some rather sickly. A dull-eyed, wretched, sodden lot. I got the liquor on their breaths. A fat old Irish stokercame drifting half-drunk up the pier with a serene and waggish smile. 

"Hello, " said Joe at my elbow. 

He looked more fagged than the day before. I noticed that his lips wereblue and that his teeth were chattering. 

"Joe, " I said abruptly, "you're not fit to be here. Let's get out ofthis, you belong in bed. " He glanced at me impatiently. 

"I'm fit enough, " he muttered. "We'll stay right here and see thisshow--unless you feel you want to quit----"

"Did I say I did? I'm ready enough----"

"All right, then wait a minute. They're about ready to go on board. "

But as we stood and watched them, I still felt the chattering teeth bymy side, and a wave of pity and anger and of disgust swept over me. Joewouldn't last long at this kind of thing!

"What do you think of my friends?" he asked. 

"I think you're throwing your life away!"

"Do you? How do you make it out?"

"Because they're an utterly hopeless crowd! Look at 'em--poordevils--they look like a lot of Bowery bums!"

"Yes--they look like a lot of bums. And they feed all the fires at sea. "

"Are they all like these?" I demanded. 

"No better dressed, " he answered. "A million lousy brothers of Christ. "

"And you think you can build a new world _with them_?"

"No--I think they can do it themselves. "

"Do you know what I think they'll do themselves? If they ever do win inany strike and get a raise in wages--they'll simply blow it in ondrink!"

Joe looked at me a moment. 

"They'll do so much more than drink, " he said. "Come on, " he added. "They're going aboard. "

They were forming in a long line now before the third-class gang-plank. As they went up with their packs on their shoulders, a man at the topgave each a shove and shouted out a number, which another officialchecked off in a book. The latter I learned was the chief engineer. Hewas a lean, powerful, ruddy-faced man with a plentiful store ofprofanity which he poured out in a torrent:

"Come on! For Christ's sake! Do you want to freeze solid, you ---- humanbunch of stiffs?"

We came up the plank at the end of the line, and I showed him a letterwhich I had procured admitting us to the engine rooms. He turned us overpromptly to one of his junior engineers, and we were soon climbing downoily ladders through the intricate parts of the engines, all polished, glistening, carefully cleaned. And then climbing down more ladders untilwe were, as I was told, within ten feet of the keel of the ship, we cameinto the stokers' quarters. 

And here nothing at all was carefully cleaned. The place was foul, itspainted steel walls and floor and ceiling were heavily encrusted withdirt. The low chamber was crowded with rows of bunks, steel skeletonbunks three tiers high, the top tier just under the ceiling. In each wasa thin, dirty mattress and blanket. In some of these men were alreadyasleep, breathing hard, snoring and wheezing. Others were crowded aroundtheir bags intent on something I could not see. Many were smoking, theair was blue. Some were almost naked, and the smells of their bodiesfilled the place. It was already stifling. 

"Had enough?" asked our young guide, with a grin. 

"No, " I said, with an answering superior smile. "We'll stay a while andget it all. "

And after a little more talk he left us. 

"How do you like our home?" asked Joe. 

"I'm here now, " I said grimly. "Go ahead and show me. And try to believethat I want to be shown. "

"All right, here comes our breakfast. "

Two stokers were bringing in a huge boiler. They set it down on thedirty floor. It was full of a greasy, watery soup with a thick, yellowscum on the top, through which chunks of pork and potato bobbed up hereand there. 

"This is scouse, " Joe told me. Men eagerly dipped tin cups in this andgulped it down. The chunks of meat they ate with their hands. They atesitting on bunks or standing between them. Some were wedged in closearound a bunk in which lay a sleeper who looked utterly dead to theworld. His face was white. 

"He reminds me, " said Joe, "of a fellow whose bunk was once next tomine. He was shipped at Buenos Ayres, where the crimps still handle thebusiness. A crimp had carried this chap on board, dumped him, got histen dollars and left. The man was supposed to wake up at sea and shovelcoal. But this one didn't. The second day out some one leaned over andtouched him and yelled. The crimp had sold us a dead one. "

As Joe said this he stared down at the sleeper, a curious tensity in hiseyes. 

"Joe, how did you ever stand this life?"

My own voice almost startled me, it sounded so suddenly tense andstrained. Joe turned and looked at me searchingly, with a trace of thatold affection of his. 

"I didn't, Kid, " he said gruffly. "The two years almost got me. Andthat's what happens to most of 'em here. Half of 'em, " he added, "aredown-and-outers when they start. They're what the factories and millsand all the rest of this lovely modern industrial world throw out as nomore wanted. So they drift down here and take a job that nobody elsewill take, it's so rotten, and here they have one week of hell andanother week's good drunk in port. And when the barrooms and the womenand all the waterfront sharks have stripped 'em of their last red cent, then the crimps collect an advance allotment from their future wages toship 'em off to sea again. "

"That's not true in _this_ port, " I retorted, eagerly catching him up onthe one point that I knew was wrong. "They don't allow crimps in NewYork any more. "

"No, " Joe answered grimly. "The port of New York has got reformed, it'sbecome all for efficiency now. The big companies put up money for a kindof a seamen's Y. M. C. A. Where they try to keep men sober ashore, andso get 'em back quick into holes like these, in the name of Christ. 

"But there's one thing they forget, " he added bitterly. "The age ofsteam has sent the old-style sailors ashore and shipped these fellows intheir places. And that makes all the difference. These chaps didn't growup on ships and get used to being kicked and cowed and shot for mutinyif they struck. No, they're all grown up on land, in factories wherethey've been in strikes, and they bring their factory views along intothese floating factories. And they don't like these stinking holes! Theydon't like their jobs, with no day and no night, only steel walls andelectric light! You hear a shout at midnight and you jump down into thestokehole and work like hell till four a. M. , when you crawl up allsoaked in sweat and fall asleep till the next shout. And you do this, not as the sailor did for a captain he knew and called 'the old man, 'but for a corporation so big it has rules and regulations for you likewhat they have in the navy. You're nothing but a number. Look here. "

He took me to a bulletin that had just been put up on the wall. Aroundit men were eagerly crowding. 

"Here's where you find by your number what shift you're to work in, " hesaid, "and what other number you have to replace if he goes down. Heartfailure is damn common here, and if your man gives out it means youdouble up for the rest of the voyage. So you get his number and hunt forhim and size him up. You hope he'll last. I'll show you why. "

He crawled down a short ladder and through low passageways dripping wetand so came into the stokehole. 

This was a long, narrow chamber with a row of glowing furnace doors. Wetcoal and coal-dust lay on the floor. At either end a small steel dooropened into bunkers that ran along the sides of the ship, deep down nearthe bottom, containing thousands of tons of soft coal, which the mencalled "trimmers" kept shoveling out to the stokers. As the voyage wenton, Joe told me, these trimmers had to go farther and farther back intothe long, black bunkers, full of stifling coal-dust, in which if theship were rolling the masses of coal kept crashing down. Hundreds of menhad been killed that way. In the stokehole the fires were not yet up, but by the time the ship was at sea the furnace mouths would be whitehot and the men at work half naked. They not only shoveled coal into theflames, they had to spread it out as well and at intervals rake out the"clinkers" in fiery masses on the floor. On these a stream of waterplayed, filling the chamber with clouds of steam. In older ships, likethis one, a "lead stoker" stood at the head of the line and set the pacefor the others to follow. He was paid more to keep up the pace. But onthe fast new liners this pacer was replaced by a gong. 

"And at each stroke of the gong you shovel, " said Joe. "You do this tillyou forget your name. Every time the boat pitches, the floor heaves youforward, the fire spurts at you out of the doors and the gong keeps onlike a sledgehammer coming down on top of your mind. And all you thinkof is your bunk and the time when you're to tumble in. "

From the stokers' quarters presently there came a burst of singing. 

"Now let's go back, " he ended, "and see how they're getting ready forthis. "

As we crawled back the noise increased, and it swelled to a roar as weentered. The place was pandemonium now. Those groups I had noticedaround the bags had been getting out the liquor, and now at eighto'clock in the morning half the crew were already well soused. Somemoved restlessly about. One huge bull of a creature with large, limpid, shining eyes stopped suddenly with a puzzled stare, then leaned back ona bunk and laughed uproariously. From there he lurched over the shoulderof a thin, wiry, sober man who, sitting on the edge of a bunk, wasslowly spelling out the words of a newspaper aeroplane story. The bigman laughed again and spit, and the thin man jumped half up and snarled. 

Louder rose the singing. Half the crew was crowded close around a littlered-faced cockney. He was the modern "chanty man. " With sweat pouringdown his cheeks and the muscles of his neck drawn taut, he was jerkingout verse after verse about women. He sang to an old "chanty" tune, onethat I remembered well. But he was not singing out under the stars, hewas screaming at steel walls down here in the bottom of the ship. Andalthough he kept speeding up his song the crowd were too drunk to waitfor the chorus, their voices kept tumbling in over his, and soon it wasonly a frenzy of sound, a roar with yells rising out of it. The singerskept pounding each other's backs or waving bottles over their heads. Twobottles smashed together and brought a still higher burst of glee. 

"I'm tired!" Joe shouted. "Let's get out!"

I caught a glimpse of his strained, frowning face. Again it came over mein a flash, the years he had spent in holes like this, in this hideous, rotten world of his, while I had lived joyously in mine. And as thoughhe had read the thought in my disturbed and troubled eyes, "Let's go up where _you_ belong, " he said. 

I followed him up and away from his friends. As we climbed ladder afterladder, fainter and fainter on our ears rose that yelling from below. Suddenly we came out on deck and slammed an iron door behind us. 

And I was where I belonged. I was in dazzling sunshine and keen frostyAutumn air. I was among gay throngs of people. Dainty women brushed meby. I felt the softness of their furs, I breathed the fragrant scent ofthem and of the flowers that they wore, I saw their fresh immaculateclothes, I heard the joyous tumult of their talking and their laughingto the regular crash of the band--all the life of the ship I had knownso well. 

And I walked through it all as though in a dream. On the dock I watchedit spellbound--until with handkerchiefs waving and voices calling downgood-bys, that throng of happy travelers moved slowly out intomidstream. 

And I knew that deep below all this, down in the bottom of the ship, thestokers were still singing. 

CHAPTER VI

That same day I had an appointment to lunch with the owner of richhotels whose story I was writing. And the interview dragged. For theAmerica he knew was like what I'd seen on the upper decks of the shipthat had sailed a few hours before. And I could not get back my old zestfor it all, I kept thinking of what I had seen underneath. The faces ofindividual stokers, some fiery red, some sodden gray, kept bobbing up inmy memory. Angrily trying to keep them down, I went on with myquestions. But I caught the hotel millionaire throwing curious looks atme now and then. 

I went home worried and depressed and shut myself up in my workroom. This business had to be thought out. It wasn't only stokers; it wassomething deep, world-wide. I had come up against the slums. What had Ito do with it all?

I was in my room all afternoon. I heard "the Indian" at my door, but Isat still and silent, and presently he went away. 

Late in the twilight Eleanore came. How beautiful she was to-night. Shewas wearing a soft gown of silk, blue with something white at her throatand a brooch that I had given her. As she bent over my shoulder I felther clean, fresh loveliness. 

"Don't you want to tell me, love, just what it was he showed you?"

"I'd rather not, my dear one, it was something so terribly ugly, " Isaid. 

"I don't like being so far away from you, dear. Please tell me. Supposeyou begin at the start. "

It took a long time, for she would let me keep nothing back. 

"I wouldn't have thought it could hit me so hard, " I said at the end. 

"I'm not surprised, " said Eleanore. 

"I can't be simply angry at Joe, " I went on. "He's so intensely andgauntly sincere. It isn't just talk with him, you see, as it is withSue's parlor radical friends. Think of the life he's been leading, thinkof it compared to mine. Joe and I were mighty close once"--I broke offand got up restlessly. "I hate to think of him, " I said. 

"It's funny, " said Eleanore quietly. "I knew this was coming sooner orlater. Ever since we've been married I've known that Joe Kramer stillmeans more to you than any man you've ever met. "

"He doesn't, " I said sharply. "Where on earth did you get that idea?"

"From you, my love, " she answered. "You can't dream how often you'vespoken about him. "

"I didn't know I had!" It is most disquieting at times, the thingsEleanore tells me about myself. 

"I know you don't, " she continued, "you do it so unconsciously. That'swhy I'm so sure he has a real place in the deep unconscious part of you. He worries you. He gets you to think you've no right to be happy!" Therewas a bitterness in her voice that I had never heard before. "I believein helping people--of course--whenever I get a chance, " she said. "But Idon't believe in this--I hate it! It's simply an insane attempt to pullevery good thing down! It's too awful even to think of!"

"We're not going to, " I told her. "I'm sorry for Joe and I wish I couldhelp him out of his hole. But I can't--it's too infernally deep. Hewon't listen to any talk from me--and as long as he won't I'll leave himalone. It's hideous enough--God knows. But if I ever tackle poverty andlabor and that sort of thing it'll be along quite different lines. "

The door-bell rang. 

"Oh Billy, " she said, "I forgot to tell you. Father's coming to dinnerto-night. " I looked at her a moment:

"Did you ask him here on my account?" Eleanore smiled frankly. 

"Yes--I thought I might need him, " she said. 

I did not talk to her father of Joe--his plans for a strike were hissecret, not mine. But with Eleanore pushing me on, I described the hellI had seen in the stokehole. 

"You're right, it's hell, " her father agreed. "But in time we'll do awaywith it. "

"I knew it, " Eleanore put in. 

"How?" I asked. 

"By using oil instead of coal. Or if we can't get oil cheap enough byautomatic stokers--machines to do the work of men. "

I thought hard and fast for a moment, and suddenly I realized that I hadnever given any real thought to matters of this kind before. 

"Then what will become of the stokers?" I asked him. 

"One thing at a time. " I caught Dillon keenly watching me over hiscigar. "Don't give up your faith in efficiency, Bill. If they'll onlygive us time enough we'll be able to do so much for men. "

There was something so big and sincere in his voice and in his clear andkindly eyes. 

"I'm sure you will, " I answered. "If you don't, there's nobody else whocan. "

In a week or two, by grinding steadily on at my work and by a few morequiet talks with Eleanore and her father, I could feel myself safelyback on my ground. 

 * * * * *

But one morning Sue broke in on me. 

"I've just heard from a friend of Joe Kramer's, " she said, "that he isdangerously ill. And there's no one to look after him. Hadn't you bettergo yourself?"

"Of course, " I assented gruffly. "I'll go down at once. "

It seemed as though the Fates and Sue were in league to keep Joe in mylife. 

I went to Joe's office and found the address of the room where he slept. It was over a German saloon close by. It was a large, low-ceilingedroom, bare and cheaply furnished, with dirty curtains at the windows, dirty collars and shirts on the floor. It was cold. In the highold-fashioned fireplace the coal fire had gone out. Joe was lyingdressed on the bed. He jumped up as I entered and came to me with hisface flushed and his eyes dilated. He gripped my hand. 

"Why, hello, Kid, " he cried. "Glad to see you!" And then with a quickdrop of his voice: "Hold on, we mustn't talk so loud, we've got to bequiet here, you know. " He turned away from me restlessly. "I've beenhunting for hours for that damn book. Their cataloguing system here isrotten, Kid, it's rotten!" As he spoke he was slowly feeling his wayalong the dirty white wall of his room. "They've cheated us, Bill, I'mon to 'em now! That's what college is really for these days, to hide thebooks we ought to read!"

It came over me suddenly that Joe was back in college, on one of thoselibrary evenings of ours. I felt a tightening at my throat. 

"Say, Joe. " I drew him toward the bed. "The chapel bell has just struckten. Time for beer and pretzels. "

"Fine business! Gee, but I've got a thirst! But where's the door? Goddamn it all--I can't find anything to-night!" He laughed unsteadily. 

"Right over here, " I answered. "Steady, old man----"

And so I got him to his bed. He fell down on it breathing hard and Ibrought him a drink of water. He began to shiver violently. I coveredhim up with dirty blankets, went down to the barroom and telephoned toEleanore. Too deeply disturbed to think very clearly, acting on animpulse, I told her of Joe's condition and asked if I might bring himhome. 

"Why of course, " came the answer, a little sharp. "Wait a moment. Let methink. " There was a pause, and then she added quietly, "Go back to hisroom and keep him in bed. I'll see that an ambulance comes right down. "

Within an hour after that Joe was installed in our guest room with atrained nurse to attend to him. The doctor pronounced it typhoid and hewas with us for nine weeks. 

 * * * * *

The effect upon our lives was sharp. In our small crowded apartment allentertaining was suddenly stopped, and with the sole exception of Sue noone came to see us. Even our little Indian learned to be quiet as amouse. Our whole home became intense. 

Through the thin wall of my workroom I could hear Joe in his delirium. Now he was busily writing letters, now in a harsh excited voice he wastalking to a crowd of men, again he was furiously shoveling coal. Allthis was incoherent, only mutterings most of the time. But when thevoice rose suddenly it was so full of a stern pain, so quivering withrevolt against life, and it poured out such a torrent of commonplaceminute details that showed this was Joe's daily life and the deepestpart of his being--that as I listened at my desk the ghost I thought Ihad buried deep, that vague guilty feeling over my own happiness, camestealing up in me again. And it was so poignant now, that struggleangrily as I would to plunge again into my work, I found it impossibleto describe the life in those rich gay hotels with the zest and the dashI needed to make my story a success. 

But it had to be a success, for we needed money badly, the expenses ofJoe's sickness were already rolling in. So I did finish it at last andtook it to my successful man, who read it with evident disappointment. It was not the glory story that I had led him to expect. My magazineeditor said he would use it, but he, too, appeared surprised. 

"You weren't up to your usual form, " was his comment. "What's thematter?"

"A sick friend. "

I started another story at once, one I had already planned, about a manwho was to build a string of gorgeous opera houses in the leadingAmerican cities. This story, too, went slowly. Joe Kramer's voice keptbreaking in. From time to time as I struggled on I could feel Eleanorewatching me. 

"Don't try to hurry it, " she said. "We can always borrow from father, you know--and besides, I'm going to cut our expenses. "

She was as good as her word. She dismissed the nurse, and through thelast weeks of delirium and the first of returning consciousness sheplaced herself in Joe's borderland as the one whose presence he vaguelyfelt pulling him back into comfort and strength. 

"No, don't talk, " I heard her say to him one evening. "I don't want tohear you. All I want is to get you well. That's the only thing you and Ihave to talk of. "

But having so thrown him off his guard, as his mind grew clearer shebegan cautiously drawing him out, despite his awakening hostility tothis woman who had made me a success. From my room I heard snatches oftheir talk. She surprised J. K. By the intimate bits of knowledge abouthim that she had collected both from me and from his own sick ramblings. She had just enough of his point of view to rouse him from hisindifference, to annoy him by her mistakes and her refusals tounderstand. I remember one afternoon when I went in to sit with him, hisstaring grimly up at my face and saying:

"Bill, that wife of yours is such a born success she scares me. Everything she touches, everything she brings me to drink, everythingshe does to this bed, is one thundering success. And she won't listen toanything _but_ success. Your case is absolutely hopeless. "

They became grim enemies, and both of them enjoyed it. She let oursmall son come and sit by the bed. The Indian promptly worshiped Joe asthe "longest" man he had ever seen, and they became boon companions. 

"It's pathetic, " Eleanore told me, "the little things that appeal to himhere. Poor boy, he has forgotten what a decent home is like. "

As he grew stronger she read the paper to him each morning, and theyquarreled with keen relish over the news events of the day. And as atthe start, so now, she kept giving him little shocks of surprise by herintimate glimpses into his views. On one of these occasions, after shehad come out from his room and was sitting by me reading, "You're a wonder, Eleanore, " I said. "I don't see how you've done it. "

"Done what, my love?" asked Eleanore. 

"Wormed all his views out of poor old Joe. "

"I haven't done anything of the sort. I've learned over half of it fromSue. She comes here often nowadays and we have long talks about him. Sueseems to know him rather well. "

This did not interest me much, so I switched our talk to something thatdid. 

"What bothers me, " I said with a scowl, "is this infernal work of mine. What are you smiling at?" I asked. 

"Nothing, " she murmured, beginning to read. "But if I were you I'd stickat my work. You're good at that. "

"Not now I'm not, " I retorted. "This story about the opera man isn'tcoming on at all! The more I work the worse it gets!"

"It will get better soon, " she said. 

"I'm not so sure. Do you know what I think is the matter with me? I wasin to-day looking at Joe asleep, and watching the lines in that face ofhis it came over me all of a sudden what a wretched coward I've been. "Eleanore looked up suddenly. "I know there's something in all his talk, I've known it every time we've met. His view's so distorted it makes memad, but there's something in it you can't get away from. Poverty, that's what it is, and I've always steered way clear of it as though Iwere afraid to look. I've taken your father's point of view and left theslums for him and his friends to tackle when they get the time. I wasonly too glad to be left out. But that hour with J. K. And his stokersgave me a jolt. I can feel it still. I can't seem to shake it off. AndI'm beginning to wonder now why I shouldn't get up the nerve to see formyself, to have a good big look at it all--and write about it for awhile. "

"Don't!" said Eleanore. "Leave it alone!" Her voice was so sharp itstartled me. 

"Why?" I rejoined. "You've tackled poverty often enough. I guess I canstand it if you can. "

"You're different, " she answered. "You leave poverty alone and forceyourself to go on with your work. You've made a very wonderful start. You'll be ready to take up fiction soon. When you have, and when youhave gone so far that you can feel sure of your name and yourself, thenyou can look at whatever you like. "

"I wonder what Joe would say to that. "

"I know what he'll say--he'll agree with me. Why don't you ask him andsee for yourself? I'm beginning to like Joe Kramer, " she added with aquiet smile, "because now that I understand him I know that his life andyours are so far apart you've hardly a point in common. "

And in the talks I had with Joe this soon proved to be the case. Eleanore brought us together now and listened with deep satisfaction aswe clashed and jarred each other apart. 

His old indifferent manner was gone, he was softened, grateful for whatwe had done--but he held to that view of his like a rock, and the viewentirely shut me out. Joe saw society wholly as "War Sure" between twoclasses, and I was hopelessly on the wrong side. My work, my home and mywhole life were bound in with the upper class. And there could be nomiddle ground. My boasted tolerance, breadth of mind, my readiness tosee both sides, my passion for showing up all men as human--this to Joewas utter piffle. He had no use for such writing, or in fact for art ofany kind. "Propaganda" was all that he wanted, and that could be ascheap as Nick Carter, as sentimental as Uncle Tom's Cabin, if only ithad the kind of "punch" that would reach to the mass of ignorant workersand stir their minds and their passions into swift and bitter revolt. Revolution! That was the thing. The world had come to a time, he said, when talking and writing weren't going to count. We were entering intoan age of force--of "direct action"--strikes and the like--by prodigiousmasses of men. All I could do was worthless. 

These talks made me so indignant and sore, so sure that Joe and all hiswork were utterly wild and that only in Dillon and his kind lay any hopeof solving the dreary problems of the slums--that within a few days moreI was delving into my opera man with a most determined approval. He atleast was a builder, he didn't want to tear everything down! In hisevery scheme for a huge success I took now an aggravated delight. All myrecent tolerance gone, I threw into my work an intensity that I had notfelt in months. 

And Eleanore smiled contentedly, as though she knew what she was about. When at last the time came for Joe to leave, she was twice as friendlyto him as I. 

CHAPTER VII

But on coming home one evening two or three weeks later, I foundEleanore reading aloud to our son with a most preoccupied look on herface. 

"Joe Kramer is coming to dinner, " she said. "He called up this morningand said he'd like to see us again. Sue is coming, too, as it happens. She dropped in this afternoon. "

Sue arrived a few minutes later, and at once I thought to myself I hadnever seen her look so well. For once she had taken time to dress. Shehad done her dark hair in a different way. Her color, which had beenpoor of late, to-night was most becomingly high, and those fascinatingeyes of hers were bright with a new animation. 

"She has found a fine new hobby, " I thought. 

Her whole attitude to us was one of eager friendliness. She made much ofwhat we had done for Joe. 

"You've no idea, " she told me, "how he feels about you both. " She wasspeaking of this when Joe came in. 

He, too, appeared to me different. Into his blunt manner had crept acertain awkwardness, his gruff voice had an anxious note at times andhis eyes a hungry gleam. Poor old Joe, I thought. It must be hard, despite all his talk, to see what he had missed in life, to feel what asacrifice he had made. He had thrown everything aside, love, marriage, home, all personal ties--to tackle this bleak business of slums. Themore pity he had such a twisted view. And as presently, in reply toSue's questions, he talked about the approaching strike, my irritationat his talk grew even sharper than before. 

"Your stokers and dock laborers, " I interrupted hotly, "are about asfit to build up a mew world as they are to build a Brooklyn Bridge! WhenI compare them to Eleanore's father and his way of going to work"--Ibroke off in exasperation. "Can't you see you're all just floundering ina perfect swamp of ignorance?"

"No, " said Joe. "I don't see that----"

"I'm mighty glad you don't, " said Sue. Eleanore turned on her abruptly. 

"Why are _you_ glad, Sue?" she asked. 

"Because, " Sue answered warmly, "he's where every one of us ought to be!He's doing the work we all ought to be doing!"

"Then why don't you do it?" said Joe. His voice was low but sharp as inpain. The next instant he turned from Sue to me. "I mean all of you, " headded. I looked at him in astonishment. What had worked this change inJoe? In our last talk he had shut me out so completely. He seemed tofeel this at once himself, for he hastened to explain his remark. He hadturned his back on Sue and was talking hard at me:

"Of course I don't mean you can do it, Bill, unless you change yourwhole view of life. But why shouldn't you change? You're young enough. That look at a stokehole got hold of you hard. And if you're able tofeel like that why not do some thinking, too?"

"I'm thinking, " I said grimly. "I told you before that I wanted to help. But you said----"

"I say it still, " J. K. Cut in. "If you want to help the people you'vegot to drop your efficiency gods. You've got to believe in the peoplefirst--that all they need is waking up to handle this whole jobthemselves. You've got to see that they're waking up fast--all over theworld--that they're getting tired of gods above 'em slowly planning outtheir lives--that they don't want to wait till they're dead to behappy--that they feel poverty every day like a million tons of brick ontheir chests--it's got so they can't even breathe without thinking! Andyou've got to see that what they're thinking is, 'Do it yourself and doit quick!' The only thing that's keeping them back is that in thesetimes of peace men get out of the habit of violence!

"But the minute you get this clear in your mind, then I say you can help'em. Because what's needed is so big. It's not only more pay and shorterhours and homes where they needn't die off like flies--they need morethan that--they need a change as much as you--in their whole way oflooking at things. They've got to learn that they are a crowd--and can'tget anywhere at all until all pull together. Ignorant? Of course theyare! But that's where you and me come in--we can help 'em get togetherfaster than they would if left to themselves! You can help that way alot--by writing to the tenements! _That's_ what I meant!"

Joe stopped short. And after his passionate outburst, Eleanore spoke upquietly. 

"This sounds funny from you, " she said. "A few weeks ago you were justas sure that Billy could do nothing. What has made you change so?"

Joe reddened and looked down at his hands. 

"I suppose, " he said gruffly after a moment, "it's because I'm stillweak from typhoid--weak enough to want to see some one but stokers getinto the job that's become my life. You see, " he muttered, "I was raisedamong people like you. It's a kind of a craving, I suppose--likecigarettes. " Again he stopped short and there was a pause. 

"Rather natural, " Sue murmured. Again he turned sharply from her to me. 

"I say you can help by your writing, " he said. "You call my friends anignorant mob. But thousands of 'em have read your stuff!"

I looked up at Joe with a start. 

"Oh they don't like it, " he went on. "It only makes 'em sore and mad. But if you ever see things right, and get into their side of this fightwith that queer fountain-axe of yours, you'll be surprised at thetenement friends who'll pop up all around you. The first thing you knowthey'll be calling you 'Bill. ' That's the kind they are--they don't wantto shut anyone out--all they want to know is whether he means business. If he doesn't he's no use, because they know that sooner or laterthey'll do it anyhow themselves. It's going to be the biggest fightthat's happened since the world began! No cause has ever been so fine, so worth a man's giving his life to aid! And all you've got to decide isthis--whether you're to get in now, and help make it a little easier, help make it come without violence--or wait till it all comes to a crashand then be yanked in like a sack of meal!"

Before I could speak, Sue drew a deep breath. 

"I don't see how there's any choice about that, " she said. 

Eleanore turned to her again:

"Do you mean for Billy?"

"I mean for us all, " Sue answered. "Even for a person like me!" Sue wasbeautiful just then--her cheeks aglow, her features tense, a radianteagerness in her eyes. "I've felt it, oh so long, " she said. "It's goneall through my suffrage work--through every speech that I havemade--that the suffragists need the working girls and ought to help themwin their strikes!"

"And what do _you_ think, Joe?" Eleanore persisted. "Were you speakingof Billy alone just now or did you have Sue, too, in mind?"

Joe looked back at her steadily. 

"I don't want to shut out the women, " he said. "I've seen too many girlsjump in and make a big success of it. Not only working girls, but plentyof college girls like you. " He turned from Eleanore to Sue--and with agruff intensity, "You may think you can't do it, Sue, " he said. "But Iknow you can. I've seen it done, I tell you, all the way from here tothe Coast--girls like you as speakers, as regular organizers--forgettingthemselves and sinking themselves--ready for any job that comes. "

"That's the way I should want to do it, " said Sue, her voice a littlebreathless. 

"But how about wives?" asked Eleanore. "For some of these girls marry, Isuppose, " she added thoughtfully. "At least I hope they do. I hope Suewill. "

"I never said anything against that, " Joe answered shortly. 

"But if they marry and have children, " Eleanore continued, "aren't theyapt to get sick of it then, even bitter about it, this movement youspeak of that takes you in and sinks you down, swallows up every dollaryou have and all your thoughts and feelings?"

"It needn't do as much as that, " Joe muttered as though to himself. 

"Still--I'd like to see it work out, " Eleanore persisted. "Do you happento know the wives of any labor leaders?"

"I do, " Joe answered quickly. "The wife of the biggest man we've got. Jim Marsh arrived in town last night. His wife is with him. She alwaysis. "

"Now are you satisfied, dear?" Sue asked. But Eleanore smiled and shookher head. 

"Is Mrs. Marsh a radical, too--I mean an agitator?" she asked. Joe'sface had clouded a little. 

"Not exactly, " he replied. Eleanore's eyes were attentive now:

"Do you know her well, Joe?"

"I've met her----"

"I'd like to meet her, too, " she said. "And find out how she likes herlife. "

"I think I know what you'd find, " said Sue, in her old cocksure, superior manner. "I guess she likes it well enough----"

"Still, dear, " Eleanore murmured, "instead of taking things for grantedit would be interesting, I think, in all this talk to have one look at alittle real life. "

"Aren't you just a little afraid of real life, Eleanore?" Sue demanded, in a quick challenging tone. 

"Am I?" asked Eleanore placidly. 

 * * * * *

Long after Joe had left us, Sue kept up that challenging tone. But shedid not speak to Eleanore now, her talk like Joe's was aimed at me. 

"Why not think it over, Billy?" she urged. "You're not happy now, Inever saw you so worried and blue. "

"I'm not in the least!" I said stoutly. But Sue did not seem to hear me. She went on in an eager, absorbed sort of way:

"Why not try it a little? You needn't go as far as Joe Kramer. He mayeven learn to go slower himself--now that he has had typhoid----"

"Do you think so?" Eleanore put in. 

"Why not?" cried Sue impatiently. "If he keeps on at this pace it willkill him! Has he no right to some joy in life? Why should you two haveit all? Just think of it, Billy, you have a name, success and a lot ofpower! Why not use it here? Suppose it is harder! Oh, I get so out ofpatience with myself and all of us! Our easy, lazy, soft little lives!Why can't we _give_ ourselves a little?" And she went back over all Joehad said. "It's all so real. So tremendously real, " she ended. 

 * * * * *

"I wonder what's going to happen, " said Eleanore when we were alone. 

"God knows, " I answered gloomily. That hammering from Joe and Sue hadstirred me up all over again. I had doggedly resisted, I had told Suealmost angrily that I meant to keep right on as before. But now she wasgone, I was not so sure. "I still feel certain Joe's all wrong, " I saidaloud. "But he and his kind are so dead in earnest--so ready for anysacrifice to push their utterly wild ideas--that they may get a lot ofpower. God help the country if they do. "

"I wasn't speaking of the country, my love, " my wife informed mecheerfully. "I was speaking of Sue and Joe Kramer. "

"Joe, " I replied, "will slam right ahead. You can be sure of that, I'vegot him down cold. "

"Have you?" she asked. "And how about Sue?"

"Oh Sue, " I replied indifferently, "has been enthused so many times. "

"Billy. "

I turned and saw my wife regarding her husband thoughtfully. 

"I wonder, " she said, "how long it will be before you can write a lovestory. "

"What?"

"Sue and Joe Kramer, you idiot. "

I stared at her dumfounded. 

"Did you think all that talk was aimed at you?" my pitiless spousecontinued. "Did you think all that change in Joe's point of view was onyour account?"

I watched her vigilantly for a while. 

"If there's anything in what you say, " I remarked carefully at last, "I'll bet at least that Joe doesn't know it. He doesn't even suspectit. "

"There are so many things, " said Eleanore, "that men don't even suspectin themselves. I'm sorry, " she added regretfully. "But that summervacation we'd planned is off. "

"What?"

"Oh, yes, we'll stay right here in town. I see anything but a pleasantsummer. "

"Suppose, " I said excitedly, "you tell me exactly what you _do_ see!"

"I see something, " Eleanore answered, "which unless we can stop it maybe a very tragic affair. Tragic for Sue because I feel sure that she'dnever stand Joe's impossible life. And even worse for your father. He'snot only old and excitable, and very weak and feeble, too, but he's soconservative besides that if Sue married Joe Kramer he'd consider herutterly damned. "

"But I tell you you're wrong, all wrong!" I broke in. "Joe isn't thatkind of an idiot!"

"Joe, " said my wife decidedly, "is like every man I've ever met. I foundthat out when he was sick. He has the old natural longing for a wife anda home of his own. His glimpse of it here may have started it rising. I'm no more sure than you are that he admits it to himself. But it'sthere all the same in the back of his mind, and in that same mysteriousregion he's trying to reconcile marrying Sue to the work which hebelieves in--even with this strike coming on. It's perfectly pathetic. 

"Isn't it funny, " she added, "how sometimes everything comes all atonce? Do you know what this may mean to us? I don't, I haven't the leastidea. I only know that you yourself are horribly unsettled--and that nowthrough this affair of Sue's we'll have to see a good deal of Joe--andnot only Joe but his friends on the docks--and not even the quiet ones. No, we're to see all the wild ones. We're to be drawn right into thisstrike--into what Joe calls revolution. "

"You may be right, " I said doggedly. "But I don't believe it. "

CHAPTER VIII

A few days later Joe called me up and asked me to come down to hisoffice. His reason for wanting to see me, he said, he'd rather not giveme over the 'phone. 

"You're right, " I told Eleanore dismally. "He's going to talk to meabout Sue. "

I dreaded this talk, and I went to see Joe in no easy frame of mind. Butit was not about Sue. I saw that in my first glimpse of his face. He sathalf around in his office chair listening intensely to a man by hisside. 

"I want you to meet Jim Marsh, " he said. 

I felt a little electric shock. So here was the great mob agitator, thenotorious leader of strikes. Eleanore's words came into my mind: "We'reto meet all the wild ones. We're to be drawn right into thisstrike--into what Joe calls revolution. " Well, here was thearch-revolutionist, the prime mover of them all. Of middle size, aboutforty years old, angular and wiry, there was a lithe easy force in hislimbs, but he barely moved as he spoke to me now. He just turned hisnarrow bony face and gave me a glance with his keen gray eyes. 

"I've known your work for quite a while, " he said in a low drawlingvoice, "Joe says you're thinking of writing me up. "

So this was why Joe had sent for me. I had quite forgotten this idea, but I took to it eagerly now. My work was going badly. Here wassomething I could do, the life story of a man whose picture would soonbe on the front page of every paper in New York. It would interest mymagazine, it would give me a chance to get myself clear on this wholeugly business of labor, poverty and strikes. I had evaded it longenough, I would turn and face it squarely now. 

"Why yes, I'd like to try, " I said. 

"He wants to do your picture with the America you know, " said Joe. "Hesays he's ready to be shown. "

Marsh glanced out at the harbor. 

"If he'll trail around with us for a while we may show him some of ithere, " he drawled. And then quietly ignoring my presence he continuedhis talk with Joe, as though taking it for granted that I was aninterested friend. I listened there all afternoon. 

The thing that struck me most at first was the cool effrontery of theman in undertaking such a struggle. The old type of labor leader had atleast stuck to one industry, and had known by close experience what hehad to face. But here was a mere outsider, a visitor strolling into aplace and saying, "I guess I'll stop all this. " Vaguely I knew what hehad to contend with. Sitting here in this cheap bare room, the thoughtof other rooms rose in my mind, spacious, handsomely furnished roomswhere at one time or another I had interviewed heads of foreign shipcompanies, railroad presidents, bankers and lawyers, newspaper editors, men representing enormous wealth. All these rooms had been parts of myharbor--a massed array of money and brains. He would have all thisagainst him. And to such a struggle I could see no end for him but jail. 

For against all this, on his side, was a chaotic army of ignorant men, stokers, dockers, teamsters, scattered all over this immense region, practically unorganized. What possible chance to bring them together?How could he feel that he had a chance? How much did he already know?

I asked him what he had seen of the harbor. For days, I learned, he hadtold no one but Joe of his coming, he had wandered about the port byhimself. And as a veteran tramp will in some mysterious fashion get thefeel of a new town within a few short hours there, so Marsh had got thefeel of this place--of a harbor different from mine, for he felt it fromthe point of view of its hundred thousand laborers. He felt it with itshuman fringe, he saw its various tenement borders like so many camps andbivouacs on the eve of a battle. 

He told a little incident of how the harbor learned he was here. Aboutnine o'clock one morning, as he was waiting his chance to get into oneof the North River docks, a teamster recognized him there from a pictureof him he had once seen. The news traveled swiftly along the docks, outonto piers and into ships. And at noon, way over in Hoboken, Marsh hadoverheard a German docker say to the man eating lunch beside him, "I hear dot tamn fool anarchist Marsh is raising hell ofer dere in NewYork. "

"But I wasn't raising hell, " he drawled. "I was over here studyingliterature. " And he drew out from his pocket a tattered copy of areport, the result of a careful investigation of work on the docks, maderecently by a most conservative philanthropic organization. 

"'In all the fierce rush of American industry, '" he read, with a quietsmile of derision, "'no work is so long, so irregular or more full ofdanger. Seven a. M. Until midnight is a common work day here, and in therush season of winter when ships are often delayed by storms and so mustmake up time in port, the same men often work all day and night and evenon into the following day, with only hour and half-hour stops forcoffee, food or liquor. This strain makes for accidents. From policereports and other sources we find that six thousand killed and injuredevery year on the docks is a conservative estimate. '"

Marsh glanced dryly up at me:

"Here's the America I know. "

I said nothing. I was appalled. Six thousand killed and injured! I couldfeel his sharp gray eyes boring down into my soul:

"You wrote up this harbor once. "

"Yes, " I said. 

"Did you write this?"

"No. I would have said it was a lie. "

"Do you say so now? These people are a careful crowd. " I took thepamphlet from his hands. 

"Queer, " I muttered vaguely. "I never saw this report before. "

"Not so queer, " he answered. "I'm told that it wasn't _meant_ to beseen--by you and the general public. That's the way this society works. They spend half a dead old lady's cash investigating poverty and theother half in keeping the public from learning what they've discovered. But we're going to furnish publicity to this secluded work of art. 

"On Saturday afternoon, " he continued, "I went along the North Riverdocks. I found long lines of dockers there--they were waiting for theirpay. At every pay window one of 'em stood with an empty cigar box in hishands--and into that box every man as he passed dropped a part of hispay--for the man who had been hurt that week--for him or for his widow. 

"And over across the way, " he went on, "I saw something on thewaterfront that fitted right into the scenery. It was a poster on a highfence, and it had a black border around it. On one side of it was apicture of a tall gent in a swell frock suit. He was looking squarely atthe docks and pointing to the sign beside him, which said, '_Certainly_I'm talking to you! Money saved is money earned. Read what I willfurnish you for seventy-five dollars--cash. Black cloth or any color youlike--plush or imitation oak--casket with a good white or creamlining--pillow--burial suit or brown habit--draping and embalmingroom--chairs--hearse--three coaches--complete care and attendance--alsohandsome candelabra and candles if requested. '"

As Marsh read this grisly list from his notebook, it suddenly came intomy mind that in my explorations years ago I had seen this poster at manypoints, all along the waterfront. It had made no impression on me then, for it had not fitted into my harbor. But Marsh had caught its meaningat once and had promptly jotted it down for use. For it fitted hisharbor exactly. 

Vaguely, in this and a dozen ways, I could feel him taking my harbor topieces, transforming each piece into something grim and so building aharbor all his own. Disturbedly and angrily I struggled to find theflaws in his building, eagerly I caught at distortions here and there, twisted facts and wrong conclusions. But in all the terrible stuff whichhe had so hastily gathered here, there was so much that I could notdeny. And he gave no chance for argument. Quickly jumping from point topoint he pictured a harbor of slaves overburdened, driven into fiercerevolt. It was hard to keep my footing. 

For his talk was not only of this harbor. It ranged out over an oceanworld which was all in a state of ferment and change. Men of every raceand creed, from English, Germans, Russians to Coolies, Japs and Lascars, had crowded into the stokeholes, mixing bowls for all the world. And themixing process had begun. At Copenhagen, two years before, in a greatmarine convention that followed the socialist congress there, Marsh hadseen the delegates from seventeen different countries representingmillions of seamen. And this crude world parliament, this internationalbrotherhood, had placed itself on record as against wars of every kind, except the one deepening bitter war of labor against capital. To furtherthis they had proposed to paralyze by strikes the whole internationaltransport world. The first had followed promptly, breaking out inEngland. The second was to take place here. 

"You don't see how it can happen, " said Marsh, with one of those keensudden looks that showed he was aware of my presence. "You admit thisplace is a watery hell, but you don't believe we can change it. Youdon't see how ignorant mobs of men can rise up and take the whole gamein their hands. Do I get you right?"

"You do, " I said. 

"Look over there. "

I followed his glance to the doorway. It was filled with a group of bigragged men. Some of the faces were black with soot, some were smilingstolidly, some scowling in the effort to hear. All eyes were intent onthe face of the man who had never been known to lose a strike. 

"That's the beginning, " Marsh told me. "You keep your eyes on theirfaces--from now on right into the strike--and you may see something growthere that'll give you a new religion. "

As the day wore into evening the crowd from outside pressed into theroom until they were packed all around us. 

"Let's get out of this, " said Joe at last. We went to a neighboringlunchroom and ate a hasty supper. But as here, too, the crowd pressed into get a look at Marsh, Joe asked us to come up to his room. 

"They _know_ your room, " Marsh answered. His tone was grim, as though hehad been accustomed for years to this ceaselessly curious pressing mass, pressing, pressing around him tight. "Suppose we go up to mine, " hesaid. "I want you fellows to meet my wife. She has never met any writersbefore, " he added to me, "and she's interested in that kind of thing. She was a music teacher once. "

I was about to decline and start for home, but suddenly I recalledEleanore's saying that she would like to meet Mrs. Marsh. So I acceptedhis invitation. And what I saw a few minutes later brought me downabruptly from these world-wide schemes for labor. 

We entered a small, cheap hotel, climbed a flight of stairs and cameinto the narrow bedroom which was for the moment this notoriouswanderer's home. A little girl about six years old lay asleep on a cotin one corner, and under the one electric light a woman sat reading amagazine. She had a strong rather clever face which would have beenappealing if it were not for the bitter impatient glance she gave us aswe entered. 

"Talk low, boys, our little girl's asleep, " Marsh said. "Say, Sally, " hecontinued, with his faint, derisive smile, "here's a writer come to seeyou. "

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure, " she said, then relapsed into a stiffsilence. I tried to break through her awkwardness but entirely withoutavail. I grew more and more sure of my first impression, that this womanhated her husband's friends, his strikes, his "proletariate. " She wassmart, pushing, ambitious, I thought, just the kind that would have goton in any middle western town. Eleanore must meet her. 

Then presently I noticed that only Marsh was talking. I glanced at Joeand was startled by the intensity in his eyes. 

For Joe was watching his leader's wife. And watching, he appeared to meto be seeing her in a dreary succession of rooms like these, in cities, towns and mining camps, wherever her husband was leading a strike--andthen trying to see his own home in such rooms, and Sue in his home, awife like this. The picture struck me suddenly cold. Sue pulled intothis for life! Again I remembered Eleanore's words--"Drawn intorevolution. "

"Say, Joe, " drawled Marsh, with a sharp look at him. "Got any of thattyphoid left?"

Joe laughed quickly, confusedly. 

Soon after that I left them. 

CHAPTER IX

The next day I went to the editor for whom I was doing most of my work. When I told him I wanted to try Jim Marsh, the editor looked at mecuriously. 

"Why?" he asked. 

I spoke of the impending strike. 

"Have you met Marsh?" he inquired. 

"Yes. "

"Do you like him?"

"No. "

"But he struck you as big. "

"Yes--he did. "

"Are you getting interested in strikes?"

"I want to see a big one close. "

"Why?"

"Why not?" I retorted. "They're getting to be significant, aren't they?I want to see what they're like inside. " The editor smiled:

"You'll find them rather hot inside. Don't get overheated. "

"Oh you needn't think I'll lose my head. "

"I hope not, " he said quietly. "Go ahead with your story about Marsh. I'll be interested to see what you do. "

I went out of the office in no easy frame of mind. The editor'sinquisitive tone had started me thinking of how J. K. Had been shut outby the papers because he wrote "the truth about things. "

"Oh that's all rot, " I told myself. "Joe's case and mine are not thesame. The magazines aren't like the papers and I'm not like Joe. Hisidea of the truth and mine will never be anywhere near alike. "

But what would Eleanore think of it? I went home and told her of myplan. To my surprise she made no objection. 

"It's the best thing you can do, " she said. "We're in this now--onaccount of Sue--we can't keep out. And so long as we are, you might aswell write about it, too. You think so much better when you're atwork--more clearly--don't you--and that's what I want. " She was lookingat me steadily out of those gray-blue eyes of hers. "I want you to thinkyourself all out--as clearly as you possibly can--and then write justwhat you think, " she said. "I want you to feel that I'm never afraid ofanything you may ever write--so long as you're really sure it's true. "

I held her a moment in my arms and felt her tremble slightly. And thenshe said with her old quiet smile:

"Sue has asked us over to Brooklyn to-night--Joe Kramer is to be there, too. "

"That affair is moving rather fast. "

"Oh yes, quite fast, " she said cheerfully. 

"How will Dad look at it?" I asked. 

"As you did, " said Eleanore dryly. "He'll look at it and see nothing atall. "

"I've half a mind to tell him!"

"Don't, " she said. "If you did he would only get excited, become theold-fashioned father and order Sue to leave Joe alone--which would beall that is needed now to make Sue marry Joe in a week. "

"Sue is about as selfish, " I said hotly, "about as wrapped up in her ownlittle self----"

"As any girl is who thinks she's in love but isn't sure, " said Eleanore. "Sue isn't sure--poor thing--she's frightfully unsettled. "

"But why drag Joe way over there?"

"Because she wants to look at him there. It's her home, you know, herwhole past life, all that she has been used to. It's the place where shehas breakfast. She wants to see how Joe fits in. "

"But they'd never live _there_ if they married!"

"Nevertheless, " said Eleanore, "that's one of the ways a girl makes upher mind. " She looked pityingly into my eyes. "Women are beyondyou--aren't they, dear?" she murmured. 

"J. K. Isn't, " I rejoined. "And I can't see him in _any_ home!"

"Can't you! Then watch him a little closer the next time he comes toours. "

I went out for a walk along the docks and tried to picture the comingstrike. When I came home I found Joe there, he had come to go with us toBrooklyn. He was sitting on the floor with our boy gravely intent on atoy circus. Neither one was saying a word, but as Joe carefully poisedan elephant on the top of a tall red ladder, I recalled my wife'sinjunction. By Jove, he did fit into a home, here certainly was adifferent Joe. He did not see me at the door. Later I called to him fromour bedroom:

"Say, Joe. Don't you want to come in and wash?"

He came in, and presently watching him I noticed his glances about ourroom. It was most decidedly Eleanore's room, from the flowered curtainsto the warm soft rug on the floor. It was gay, it was quiet and restful, it was intimately personal. Here was her desk with a small heap ofletters and photographs of our son and of me, and here close by was herdressing-table strewn with all its dainty equipment. A few invitationswere stuck in the mirror. Eleanore's hat and crumpled white gloves layon our bed. I had thrown my coat beside them. There were such things inthis small room as Joe had never dreamed of. 

"Oh Joe, " said Eleanore from the hall. "Don't you want to come into thenursery? Somebody wants a pillow fight. "

"Sure, " said Joe, with a queer little start. 

"By the way, " I heard her add outside. "Billy told me he saw Mrs. Marsh, and I should so like to meet her, too. Couldn't you have us all down toyour room some evening?"

"If you like, " he answered gruffly. 

"I'm honestly curious, " Eleanore said, "to see what kind of a person sheis. And I'm sure that Sue is, too. May we bring her with us?"

"Of course you may--whenever you like. "

"Would Friday evening be too soon?"

"I'll see if I can fix it. "

When Eleanore came in to me, her lips were set tight as though somethinghad hurt her. 

"That was pretty tough, " I muttered. 

"Yes, wasn't it, " she said quickly. "I don't care, I'm not going to havehim marrying Sue. I'm too fond of both of them. Besides, your father hasto be thought of. It would simply kill him!"

 * * * * *

"Yes, " I thought to myself that night. "No doubt about that, it wouldkill him. "

How much older he looked, in the strong light of the huge old-fashionedgas lamp that hung over the dining-room table. He was making a visibleeffort to be young and genial. He had not seen Joe in several years, andhe evidently knew nothing whatever of what Joe was up to, except that hehad been ill at our home. Joe spoke of what we had done for him, and Sueeagerly took up the cue, keeping the talk upon us and "the Indian, " tomy father's deep satisfaction. From this she turned to our childhood andthe life in this old house. Dad pictured it all in such glowing colors Irecognized almost nothing as real. But watching Sue's face as shelistened, she seemed to me trying to feel again as she had felt herelong ago when she had been his only chum. Every few moments she wouldbreak off to throw a quick, restless glance at Joe. 

When the time came for us to go, my father assured us warmly that he hadnot felt so young in years. He said we had so stirred him up that hemust take a book and read or he wouldn't sleep a wink all night. Joe didnot come away with us. As we stood all together at the door, I sawEleanore glance into Dad's study where his heavy leather chair waswaiting, and then into the room across the hall where Sue had drawn uptwo chairs to the fire. And I thought of the next hour or two. My fatheralready had under his arm a book on American shipping, which told aboutthe old despotic sea world of his day, in which there had been nostrikers but only mutineers. 

 * * * * *

"There's very little time to lose, " said Eleanore on the way home. 

"Look here, " I suggested. "Why don't you talk this out with Sue, andtell her just what you think of it all?"

"Because, " said Eleanore, "what I think and what you think has nothingwhatever to do with the case. Sue would say it was none of our business. And she'd be quite right. It isn't. "

"Aren't we making it our business?" My wife at times gets me soconfused. 

"I'm not _telling_ them anything, " she rejoined. "I'm only trying to_show_ them something and let the poor idiots see for themselves. Ifthey won't see, it's hopeless. "

CHAPTER X

On Friday evening Sue sent word that she would be late and that shewould meet us at Joe's room. So we went down without her. 

His room had changed since I'd seen it last, I took in at once hispathetic attempts to fix it up for our coming. Gone were the dirtycurtains, the dirty collars and shirts, and the bed was concealed by anold green screen borrowed from his landlady, the German saloon-keeper'swife below. The same woman had scrubbed the floor and put down a fadedrag carpet in front of the old fireplace, in which now a coal fire wasburning. Poor Joe had turned up all the lights to make things bright andcheerful, but it only showed things up as they were. The room wasglaringly forlorn. 

And now that Eleanore had come, her presence made him feel at once whata wretchedly dreary place it was. Eleanore knew what she wanted to doand she had dressed herself for the part. And as Joe took in the effectof her smart little suit, and waited for Sue and Mrs. Marsh, he becameso anxious and gloomy that he could only speak with an effort. He keptglancing uneasily at the door. 

"I don't like the idea, " said Eleanore, "of Sue's coming down here aloneat night through this part of town. " Joe looked around at her quickly. "But I suppose, " she added thoughtfully, "that she'd have to get used toqueer parts of towns if she ever took up the life you spoke of. "

"I don't think that would bother her, " Joe answered gruffly. 

Presently there was a step on the stairs. He jumped up and went to thedoor, and a moment later Sue entered the room. 

Immediately its whole atmosphere changed. Sue was plainly excited. She, too, had dressed herself with care--or rather with a careful neglect. She wore the oldest suit she had and a simple blouse with a gay red tie. With one sharp glance at Eleanore, she took in the strained situationand set about to ease it. 

"What a nice old fireplace, " she exclaimed. "Let's turn down the lightsand draw 'round the fire. You need more chairs, Joe; go down and getsome. "

And soon with the lights turned low and the coals stirred into a ruddyglow, we were sitting in quite a dramatic place, the scene was set for"revolution. " The curtainless windows were no longer bleak, for throughthem from the now darkened room we looked out on the lights of theharbor. Sue thought the view thrilling, and equally thrilling she foundthe last issue of Joe's weekly paper, _War Sure_, which lay on thetable. It was called "Our Special Sabotage Number, " and in it variousstokers and dockers, in response to an appeal from Joe, had crudelywritten their ideas upon just how the engines of a ship or the hoistingwinches on a dock could be most effectively put out of order in time ofstrike. "So that the scabs, " wrote one contributor, "can see how theylike it. "

"Why not have blue-penciled some of this?" I asked, with a faintpremonition of trouble ahead. 

"Because Joe believes in free speech, I suppose, " Sue answered for himquickly. 

"I'm not much of a lawyer, Joe, " I said. "But this stuff looks to me agood deal like incitement to violence. "

"Possibly, " J. K replied. 

"You don't look horribly frightened, " laughed Sue. And she wanted tohear all the latest strike news. The time was rapidly drawing near. Itwas now close to the end of March and the strike was expected in April. 

When Marsh arrived about nine o'clock, there was an awkward moment. Forbehind him came his wife and their small daughter, both of whom werestiffly dressed, and with one glance at Eleanore they felt immediatelyout of place. Mrs. Marsh was even more hostile and curt than when I hadseen her last. She was angry at having been dragged into this and tooklittle pains to hide it. 

"My husband would have me come, " she said. "And I couldn't leave mylittle girl, so I had to bring her along. " And she stopped abruptly witha look that asked us plainly, "Now that I'm here, what do you want?"

"How old is your little girl?" Eleanore inquired. 

"Six last month. "

"Are you going to put her in school in New York?"

And in spite of short suspicious replies she soon had Mrs. Marsh and herchild talking of kindergartens and parks and other parts of the townthey must see. Sue was now eagerly talking to Marsh, Joe was beside herhelping her out, and both seemed wholly to have forgotten the disturbingwoman behind them. But by the quick looks that Eleanore gave them nowand then, I could see she was only holding back until she should haveMrs. Marsh in a mood where she could be brought into the talk and madeto tell about her life. 

"Don't you ever want to settle down?" she asked when there had come apause. Marsh turned abruptly to Eleanore. 

"Of course she does, " he answered. "Did you ever know a woman whodidn't, the minute that she got a kid? But my wife can't, if she sticksto me. She has had to make up her mind to live in any old place thatcomes along, from a dollar room in a cheap hotel to a shanty in a miningcamp. " And his look at Eleanore seemed to add, "That's the kind she is, you little doll. "

Eleanore quickly made herself look as much like a doll as possible. Sheplacidly folded her dainty gloved hands. 

"I should think, " she murmured in ladylike tones, "Mrs. Marsh would findthat rather difficult. "

"She does, " said Marsh aggressively. "But my wife has nerve enough tostand up to the rough side of life--as the wives of most workingmenhave to--in this rich and glorious land. "

"Won't you tell us about it?" asked Eleanore sweetly. "I should be sointerested to hear. It's so different, you see, from all I've beenaccustomed to. "

"Yes, " Marsh answered grimly, "I've no doubt it is. Go ahead, Sally, andtell them about it. "

And Sally did. Gladly taking her husband's aggressive tone, she startedout almost with a sneer. Her remarks at first were disjointed and brief, but I told her I was writing the story of her husband's life, that Iwanted her side of it from the start. I promised to show her what Iwrote and let her cut anything she had told me if she did not want it inprint. And so in scattered incidents, with bits thrown in now and thenby Marsh, the lives of these two began to come out. And we understoodher bitterness. 

 * * * * *

"Mr. Marsh was born, " she said, "in one of the poorest little towns inSouthern Iowa. It was nothing but a hole of a place about six miles fromthe county seat where my father was a lawyer. But even in that littlehole his family was the poorest there. I've been all over the Statessince then, and I've seen poor people, the Lord knows--but I want to sayI've never seen people anywhere that were any worse off than my husbandwas when he was a boy. And yet he got out of it all by himself. Hedidn't need any strikes to help him. "

"But of course, " Sue put in smoothly, "your husband was an exceptionalman. " Mrs. Marsh threw her a bitter glance. 

"He might have been, " she answered. 

"What was he like as a boy?" I asked. 

"A fighter, " she said. For a moment her sharp voice grew proud. "Hisfather took diabetes and died, and they went into debt to bury him. Jimhelped his mother run the farm and missed half his schooling. But histeacher loaned him text-books--and at home they had no candles, so heused to work with his back to the fire--half the night. My father usedto call him a regular little Honest Abe. That's a surprise to you, isn'tit, " she added with a hard little laugh. 

"But then the town had a sudden boom. A new branch of the railroad camethrough that way and houses and stores went up over night. Jim was onlysixteen then, but he grabbed the chance to get into the building. Inless than a year he had earned enough money so he could quit and go toschool. He came over to high school in our town, walking his six milestwice a day. And that's where I met him. 

"My father took a shine to him right off and promised to make him alawyer. He loaned him law books the first year, and the second Jimworked in his office. " She looked for a moment at the wall. "I expectit's not a love story you're after--so I'll leave that part of it out. Papa was mad when I broke the news--and I can't say I blame him. He wasthe richest man in town, the railroad lawyer of the place--and he hadmeant that I should go to a polishing school in St. Louis. 

"Well, I did go to St. Louis, but I was eloping at the time and I becameJim's wife. We had a hard fight for a year or two, but we made up ourminds we'd make it go. Jim got a job on a skyscraper which was going upat that time. I got him his breakfast at six every morning and he gothome about seven at night, and right after supper he went at hisBlackstone and dug into it all evening. As a rule he got to bed at one, and five hours' sleep was all he had--with a few hours extra Sundays. 

"I knew a girl from home in St. Louis whose husband was making moneyfast. But Jim was too proud to make use of my friends or go to her homewhen we were invited. We missed three card parties on that account. Butshe helped me get some pupils and I gave piano lessons. When my baby wasborn I had to quit--but I thought we were out of the woods by then, forJim was made foreman of his gang and was raised to a hundred dollars amonth. We moved from our boarding house into a flat. I hired a youngSwedish girl and began to feel that I knew where I was. 

"But then the building workers struck. Jim had always been popular withhis men, and now he wanted his boss to give them half of what they askedfor. But his boss didn't see it that way at all, and he and Jim hadtrouble. The next week Jim decided he wouldn't manage what he called'scabs. ' So he left his employment, went in with the men and made thestrike a great success. That left him leader of their union. The salarythey paid him was eighty dollars instead of a hundred--so I let ourSwedish girl go. 

"He said his new position would give him more time to study law. But itdidn't turn out quite that way. He got so wrapped up in his unionaffairs that he had no time for his law books. One day I put them up ona shelf and found he didn't notice it. "

Eleanore suddenly tightened at this, a quick sympathy came into hereyes. Sue gave a restless little sigh. 

"He'd be out at meetings most every night, " Mrs. Marsh continued. "Atthe end of the year he was one of three leaders in a strike of all thebuilding trades in town. All work of that kind in the city was stoppedand things got very ugly. One night a man came to our flat and informedme that my husband was in jail. I went to the jail the next morning andsaw him. We had quite a talk. And that afternoon I gave up our flat. "

"Why?" asked Eleanore softly. 

"I presumed the landlord wished it, " said Mrs. Marsh without lookingaround. "I took a room in a cheap hotel. Mr. Marsh came out of jail withideas that were all new to me. He had left his old trade union and gonein with a new crowd of men who stood for out-and-out revolution--which Icouldn't understand. But we made the best of it. We went to the theaterthat night and then he took the midnight train on one of his firstlabor trips. At first these trips were only for a week or so, but astime went on they grew longer. As a rule I never wrote him because Inever knew his address. On one trip he was away five weeks--and beforehe got back there was time enough for my second baby, a little boy, tobe born and die of pneumonia. "

Eleanore flinched as though that had hurt. I saw her turn and look atSue, who seemed even more restless than before. 

"You decided to travel with him then--didn't you?" Eleanore murmured. 

"Yes, " said the other gruffly. "We used to try to figure out what cityhe would likely be in, or at least not far away from--and then my littlegirl and I would find a place to board there. It has been like that forthe past four years. In that time we've lived in fourteen places all theway between here and the Coast. "

"Have you lived all the time at hotels?" Eleanore inquired. 

"We have, " said the woman curtly, "but hardly the kind you're accustomedto. As a rule, as soon as we reach a town my husband's name appears inthe papers, and on that account the more refined houses wouldn't care tokeep us long. "

Eleanore leaned forward, her eyes troubled and intent. She seemed tohave forgotten Sue. 

"How do you know they wouldn't?" she asked. 

"I found out by trying--twice. "

I heard a sudden angry creak in the battered old chair in which Sue wassitting. 

"So my little girl Lucy and I, " the embittered voice went on, "go tohotels that don't ask many questions. We pass the time going to parks ormuseums--or now and then to a concert--where I try to give her a tastefor good music. "

"Do you find time to keep up your music?" I asked. 

"There's time enough, " came the quick reply. "You see as a rule I'm justwaiting around. One night in Pittsburgh it was my birthday, and as theGrand Opera was there for a week and I had never been to one, I got Mr. Marsh to take me. We made it a regular celebration, with dinner in afirst-class restaurant just for once. But my husband is generallywatched, and the papers all took it up the next day. 'Marsh and wifedine and see opera after his speech to starving strikers, ' or similarwords to that effect. "

"Do you see anything of the strikers?" I asked. 

"Not much, " she replied. "We used to be invited to go to parties attheir homes. But most of them, even the leaders, were Irish, Germans, Italians or Jews whose wives could barely speak English. I found themnot very pleasant affairs. Some of the wives drank a good deal of beerand most of them had very little to say. Strike dances were no better. The wives as a rule sat with their children around the walls--while alot of young factory girls, Jewesses for the most part, danced turkeytrots around the hall. "

"There were speeches, I suppose?" Sue put in impatiently. 

"Yes--Mr. Marsh and others made speeches between dances. They weren'tthe kind of affairs I'd been used to in our home town, " said Mrs. Marsh. "I've lost track of the folks at home. I never write and they don'twrite me. Only once when my mother knew where I was she sent me a box atChristmas. Lucy and I got quite excited over that box, it was all thepresents we'd had from outside in quite a line of Christmases. So wethought we'd celebrate. "

"How did you celebrate Christmas?" Eleanore asked softly. 

"We went out and bought a tree and candles, some gold balls and popcornand all the other fixings. And we popped the corn over the gas thatnight. The next day we bought things for each other's stockings. Lucywas then only four years old, but I'd leave her at a counter and tellthe clerk to let her have all she wanted to buy for me up to a dollar. That was how we worked it. The next night we had the tree in our room. Igot Mr. Marsh to help me trim it. At last we lit the candles and letLucy in from the hotel hall, where she'd nearly caught her death ofcold. Then we opened the box from home. There was a doll for Lucy and aframed photograph of my mother for me--and for Mr. Marsh a Bible. He gotlaughing over that and so did I. And that ended Christmas. 

"We had another Christmas last year, " she said in a slow, intense sortof way as though seeing the place as she spoke, "in a mining town inMontana, where Jim had been in jail five days and the whole place wasunder martial law. A major of the militia came to me on Christmas Eve. He claimed that Jim had been seen by detectives traveling with anotherwoman and that I was not his wife. They locked me up for two hours thatnight as an immoral woman. "

Sue was sitting rigid now, her lips pressed tight. And Joe with astrained unnatural face was staring into the fire. 

"But of course, " Mrs. Marsh concluded, "most of the time it isn't likethat. As a rule when we come to a city nothing especial happens at all. We just take a room like the one we have now and wait till the strike isover. I've got so I have a queer view of towns. I'm always there at thetime of a strike, when crowds of Italians and Poles and Jews fill thestreets on parade or jam into halls and talk about running the world bythemselves. And I guess they're going to do it some day--but I presumenot by to-morrow. "

For some time while she was speaking her eyes had been fixed steadilyupon Joe's only picture. It stood on the mantel, a big charcoal sketchof a crowd of immigrants just leaving Ellis Island. They were of allraces. Uncouth, heavy, stolid, with that hungry hope in all their eyesfor more of the good things of the earth, they seemed like some barbarichorde about to pour in over the land. With her eyes upon their faces indeep, quiet hatred this woman from the Middle West had told the story ofher life. 

 * * * * *

"Well, Sally, " said her husband, who had grown restive toward the end, "I guess that'll do. Let's go on home. "

"I'm sure I'm ready, " she quickly replied. Now that she had come out ofherself she seemed angry at having told so much. 

When they had left there was a silence, which Sue broke with a breath ofimpatience. 

"What a frightful thing it must be for a man in this work, " sheexclaimed, "to have a wife like that! A woman so hard and narrow, sowrapped up in her own little life, with not a spark of sympathy for anyof his big ideals!"

"I suppose it's the life that has done it, " said Eleanore quietly, looking at Sue. 

"I'd like to see some women, " Sue retorted angrily, "who have been inthat life for years and years, and _have_ sympathy, have _everything_, don't care for anything else in the world!" She turned suddenly to Joe. "You said there were hundreds, didn't you?"

Joe looked back at her a moment. There was a startled, groping, searching expression in his eyes. 

"Yes, " he said. "There are hundreds. "

"Are many of them married?" Eleanore inquired. 

"Some of them are, " he answered. 

"When a woman who, as Sue has just said, throws herself into this heartand soul, marries a man who is in it, too, how much of their time canthey spend together?"

"That depends on the kind of work, " he said. Eleanore held his eyes withhers. 

"In some cases, I suppose, " she went on, "like yours, for example, wherethe man's work keeps him moving--if the woman's work wouldn't let hergo with him they would have to be half their time apart. "

"Yes. "

"As Mrs. Marsh and her husband were at the time when her second baby wasborn. "

"Yes, " said Joe, still watching her. 

"Aren't there a good many, too, who don't exactly marry--but marry justa little--one woman here, another there, and so on?"

"Yes, " said Joe, "there are some who do that. "

"I should think, " said Eleanore thoughtfully, "that in a movement ofthis kind a man ought not to marry at all--or else marry a little a goodmany times--so as always to be free for the Cause. "

"Unless, " said Joe, quite steadily, "he finds a woman like some I'veknown, whose feeling for a man, one man, seems to be planted in her forlife--who can easily stand not being with him because she herself isdeep in her own job, and her job is about the same as his--and becausethe two of them have decided to see the whole job through to the end. "

His eyes went up to the charcoal sketch. 

"It's a job worth seeing through, " he said. 

Sue was leaning forward now. 

"Where did you get that picture, Joe?" she asked. 

"It was an illustration, " he said, "for a thing I once had in amagazine. " And then as though almost forgetting us all, his eyes stillupon those immigrant faces, he said with a slow, rough intensity:

"I know every figure in it. I know just where they're strong and whereeach one of 'em is weak. I've never made gods out of 'em. But I knowthey do all the real work in the world. They're the ones who get all therotten deals, the ones who get shot down in wars and worked like dogs intime of peace. They're the ones who are ready to go out on strike andrisk their lives to change all this. They're the people worth spendingyour life with. But it's a job for your whole life--and before a man ora woman jumps in they want to be sure they're ready. "

He did not look at Sue as he spoke. He seemed barely able to holdhimself in. His relief was plain when we took her away. 

Sue took a car to Brooklyn and we started homeward. Eleanore wanted towalk for a while. She walked quickly, her face set. 

"What do you think of it?" I asked. 

"I wasn't thinking of Sue, " she said. "I was thinking of Mrs. Marsh. I've never tormented a woman like that and I never will again in mylife--not for Sue or anyone else--she can marry anybody she likes!"

"Well, she won't marry Joe, " I said. "Did you see his face--poor devil?You've certainly settled that affair. "

"Have I?" she asked sharply. And then her curious feminine mind took along leap. "And what are _you_ going to be, " she asked, "in a year fromnow?" I smiled at her. 

"Not a second Marsh, " I said. "But even if I were the man in the moon, you'd make a success of being my wife. "

"I think I would, " said Eleanore. "It must be so quiet up there in themoon. "

CHAPTER XI

"Come over here at once. " My father's voice over the telephone, onemorning a few days later, sounded thick and unnatural. 

"What about?" I asked. 

"Your sister. "

When I reached the house in Brooklyn he came himself to let me in andtook me into the library. I was shocked by his face, it was terriblyworn, quite plainly he had been up all night. As he began speaking hisvoice shook and he leaned forward, every inch of him tense. 

Sue had told him the night before that she was going to marry JoeKramer. In reply to his anxious questions she had given him some of thefacts about what Joe was doing. And Dad had stormed at her half thenight. 

"She wants to marry him, Billy, " he cried. "She's got her mind set on aman like that! What has he got to support her with? Not a cent, not evena decent job! He's not writing now. Do you know what he's doing?Stirring up strikes--of the ugliest kind--of the most ignorant class ofmen--foreigners! I know such strikes--I've fought 'em myself and I knowhow they're handled! That young man will land in jail! And it's where hebelongs! Do you know what he's up to right here on the docks?"

"Yes, I know----"

"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let him come to the house?"

"I was doing my best to stop it, Dad. "

"You were, eh--well, you'll stop it now! Understand me, Billy, he'syour friend--you brought him here--way back at the start. You've got toput a stop to this----"

"But how?" I asked, trying to steady my voice. "What do you think that Ican do?"

"You can talk to her, can't you? God Almighty! Make her see this willruin her life!"

"I can't do that. "

"Can't you?" He rose and bent over me gripping my arms, and I felt hisviolent trembling. "If you don't, it's the end of me, " he said. 

"Steady, Dad--now steady--this is coming out all right, you know----" Igot him back into his chair. "I'm going to do all I possibly can. I'mgoing to see Joe Kramer now--he's the only one who can influence her. I'm going to get him to come to Sue and help me make her feel what'sahead--the hardest, ugliest parts of his life. Now promise you'll keepout of it, promise you'll leave her alone while I'm gone. "

He agreed to this at last and I left him. But as I went into the hallSue came to me from the other room. Her face was white and strained. 

"Well, Billy?" she said. My throat tightened. She looked so pitifullyworn. 

"I'm sorry, Sue----"

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she cut in with a quick catch ofher breath. 

"No, no. " I took her in my arms. "Dear old Sue--don't you know how Ifeel? I want to see you happy. I'm trying to see what on earth we cando. "

"Why can't you all leave me alone?" she demanded, in low broken tones. "That's all I want--I'm old enough! I love him! Isn't that enough? To betreated like this--like a bad little child! If you'd been here and heardhim--Dad, I mean--I tell you he's half out of his mind! I'm afraid to beleft alone with him!"

"Sue?" It was our father's voice. He had come out close behind us. 

"Leave me alone!" Sue started back, but he caught her arm:

"You'll stay right here with me till he comes. "

"Till who comes?"

"Kramer. "

"Who said he was coming?"

"Your brother. "

"Billy!"

"Now, Sis, I'm going to talk to Joe and try to persuade him to see youand me together, that's all--quietly--over in our apartment. "

"No, " said our father. "He'll see her right here!"

"Now, Dad----"

"Careful, son, don't get in my way. I'm standing about as much as I can. Kramer is to come right here. If there's any seeing Sue to be done it'sto be in her home, where she belongs. I won't let her out of it--not foran hour out of my sight!"

"You'll lock me in here?" she panted. He turned on her. 

"You can call the police if you want to. " He let go his hold and turnedto me. "I'm thinking of her mother. If she sees this man at all againI'll see him too. "

"Can't you leave us?" I implored her. "Sue--please! Go up to your room!"

When she'd gone I tried to quiet him. And now that Sue was out of theway I partly succeeded. But he stuck to his purpose. Joe must come andsee Sue here. 

"I want to be on hand when she sees him, " he insisted. "I don't want totalk--I've done all that--I won't say a word--but I want to be here. Youthink you know her better than I do because you're younger--but youdon't. We've lived right here together--she's been my chum fortwenty-five years, and I know things about her you don't know. She'swilful, she's as wild as a hawk--but she can't hold out, she hasn't itin her. "

"She will if you act as you did just now----"

"But I won't, " he said sharply. "That was a mistake--and I won't let ithappen again. When he comes you do the talking, boy--and if we're beatenI won't try to keep her, she goes and it's ended, I promise you that. But, son, don't make any mistake about this--I have an influence overthis girl that you haven't got and nobody has. I want her to feel mebeside her. "

He went over this again and again, and with this I had to leave him. 

 * * * * *

I found Joe in his office. He rose abruptly when I came in, and reachedfor his hat. 

"Let's go out for a walk, " he said. Down in the street he turned on me:"Sue has just 'phoned me you were there. She thought you were going tohelp her, Bill, she thought that you'd stand by her. She didn't get anysleep last night--she's been through hell with that father of hers----"

"Oh, I've been all through Sue's sufferings, Joe. Don't give me any moreof that. "

"You mean you think she's faking?"

"No. But to be good and brutally frank about it, what she suffers justnow doesn't count with me. It's what her whole life may be with you. "

"That's not exactly your business, is it?"

"It wouldn't be if I didn't know Sue. "

"What do you know?"

"I know that in spite of all her talk and the way she acts and honestlyfeels whenever she's with you, " I replied, "Sue wants to hang on to herhome and us. She isn't the heroic kind. She can't just follow along withyou and leave all this she's used to. "

Joe's face clouded a little. 

"She'll get over that, " he muttered. 

"Perhaps she will and perhaps she won't. How do you know? You want toknow, don't you? You want her to be happy?"

"No, that's not what I want most. Being happy isn't the only thing----"

"Then tell her so. That's all I ask. I'll tell you what I've come for, Joe. You've always been more honest, more painfully blunt and open thanany man I've ever known. Be that way now with Sue. Give her theplainest, hardest picture you can of the life you're getting her into. "

"I've tried to do that already. "

"You haven't! If you want to know what you've done I can tell you. You've painted up this life of yours--and all these things you believein--with power enough and smash enough to knock holes through all Ibelieve in myself. And I'm stronger than Sue--you've done more to her. What I ask of you now is to drop all the fire and punch of your dreams, and line out the cold facts of your life on its personal side--what it'sgoing to be. I'll help draw it out by asking you questions. "

"What's the use of that? I know it won't change her!"

"Maybe it won't. But if it won't, at least it'll make my father give up. Can't you see? If you and I together--I asking and you answering--paintyour life the way it's to be, and she says, 'Good, that's what Iwant'--he'll feel she's so far away from him then that he'll throw uphis hands and let her go. He can rest then, we can help himthen--Eleanore and I can--it may save the last years of his life. AndSue will be free to come to you. "

"You mean the more ugly we make it the better. "

"Just that. Let's end this one way or the other. "

"All right. I agree to that. "

 * * * * *

When Joe and I came into the library my father rose slowly from hischair and the two stood looking at one another. And by some curiousmental process two memories flashed into my mind. One was of thetowering sails that my father had told me he had seen on his first dayon the harbor, when coming here a crude boy from the inland he hadthrilled to the vision of owning such ships with crews to whom his wordshould be law, and of sending them over the ocean world. Such was theage he had lived in. The other was of the stokers down in the bottom ofthe ship, and Joe's tired frowning face as he said, "Yes, they look likea lot of bums--and they feed all the fires at sea. " What was there incommon between these two? To each age a harbor of its own. 

"Well, young man, what have you to say to me?"

"Nothing. "

Sue came into the room. Briefly I explained to her what our father hadagreed upon, that she was to do the deciding and that he would abide byher decision. Then I began my questions to Joe. I felt awkward, painfully the intruder into two other people's lives. And I felt asthough I were operating upon the silent old man close by. "The uglierthe better, " I kept repeating to myself. 

"Let's take up first the money side, Joe. Have you any regular salary?"

"No. "

"Such as it is, where does it come from?"

"Out of the stokers. "

"How much do you get?"

"One week twenty dollars and another ten or five, " he said. "One week Igot three dollars and eighty-seven cents. "

"Is that likely to grow steadier?"

"Possibly--more likely worse. "

"But can two of you live on pay like that--say an average of ten dollarsa week?"

"I know several millions of people that have to. And most of them havechildren too. "

"And you'd expect to live like that?"

"No better, " was his answer. My father turned to him slowly as though hehad not heard just right. 

"But as a matter of fact, " I went on, "you wouldn't have to, would you?You'd expect Sue to earn money as well as yourself. "

"I hope so--if she wants to--it's my idea of a woman's life. "

"And the work you hope she'll enter will be the kind you believein--organizing labor and taking an active part in strikes?"

"Yes. She's a good speaker----"

"I see. And if you were out of a job at times you'd be willing to lether support you?"

Sue angrily half rose from her chair, but Joe with a grim move of hishand said softly, "Sit down and try to stand this. Let's get it over anddone with. " Then he turned quietly back to me. 

"Why yes--I'd let her support me, " he said. 

"You mean you don't care one way or the other. You'd both be working forwhat you believe in, and how you lived wouldn't especially count?"

"That's about it. "

"What do you believe in, Joe? Just briefly, what's your main idea instirring up millions of ignorant men?"

"Mainly to pull down what's on top. "

"As for instance?"

"All of it. Business, industry and finance as it's being run atpresent. "

"A clean sweep. And in place of that?"

"Everything run by the workers themselves. "

"For example?" I asked. "The ships by the stokers?"

"Yes, the ships by the stokers, " he said. And I felt Dad stiffen in hischair. "As they will be when the time comes, " Joe added. 

"How soon will that be?"

"I'll see it, " he said. 

"The working people in full control. No restraints whatever from above. "

"There won't be anyone left above. No more gods, " he answered. 

"Not even one?"

"Is there one?" he asked. 

"You're an atheist, aren't you, " I said. 

"Yes, when I happen to think of it. "

"And Sue would likely be the same. "

"Isn't she now?" he inquired. I dropped the point and hurried on. 

"How about Sue's friends, Joe? In a life like that--always instrikes--she'd have to give them up, wouldn't she?"

"Probably. Some of 'em think they're radicals, but I doubt if they'dcome far out of the parlor. "

"So her new friends would be either strikers or the people who lead instrikes. Her life would be practically sunk in the mass. "

"I hope so. "

"You may be in jail at times. "

"Quite probably. "

"Sue too?"

"Possibly. "

I caught the look in my father's face and knew that I had but a fewmoments more. 

"Do you want to marry her, Joe?" I asked. 

"Yes, I'll go down to City Hall--if a large fat Tammany alderman canmake our love any cleaner. "

"You mean you don't believe in marriage. "

"Not especially, " he said. 

"And so if either gets sick of the other he just leaves without anyfuss. "

"Naturally. "

There was a pause. And then Joe spoke again. 

"You're a better interviewer than I thought you were, " he said. "You'vemade the picture quite complete--as far as you can see it. Of courseyou've left all the real stuff out----"

"What is the real stuff, as you call it, young man?" My father's voicehad a deadly ring. Joe turned and looked at him as before. 

"You couldn't understand, " he said. 

"I think I understand enough. " Dad rose abruptly and turned to Sue. "Sue, " he said. "Shall I ask your anarchist friend to go?"

I could feel Sue gather herself. She was white. 

"I'll have to go with him, " she managed to say. A slight spasm shot overour father's face. For a moment there was silence. 

"You've heard all he said of this life of his?"

"Yes. "

"And what he wants and expects you to do?"

"I heard it. "

"And just how he wants you to live--with nothing you've been usedto--nothing? No money but what a few drunken stokers throw your way, nodecent ideals, no religion, no home?"

Again a pause. 

"I want to go with him, " she brought out at last. 

Dad turned sharply and left the room. 

 * * * * *

I heard a deep breath behind me. It came from Joe Kramer, whose face wasset in a frown of pain. 

"He's so damn old, " Joe muttered. "You operated on him hard. "

Suddenly Sue threw herself on the lounge. She huddled there shaking andmotioned us off. 

"Leave me alone, can't you, go away!" we heard between her sobs. "It'sall right--I'm ready--I'll come to you, Joe--but not now--not just now!Go away, both of you--leave me alone!"

Joe left the house. Soon after that Eleanore arrived and I told her whathad happened. She went in to Sue, I left them together and went up tomy father's room. He lay on the bed breathing quickly. 

"You did splendidly, son, " he said. "You slashed into her hard. It hurtme to listen--but it's all right. Let her suffer--she had to. It hither, I tell you--she'll break down! If we can only keep her here! GetEleanore!"

He stopped with a jerk, his hand went to his heart, and he panted andscowled with pain. 

"I sent for her, " I told him. "She's come and she's in Sue's room now. Let's leave them alone. It's going to be all right, Dad. "

I sent for a doctor who was an old friend of my father's. He came andspent a long time in the room, and I could hear them talking. At last hecame out. 

"It won't do, " he said. "We can't have any more of this. We must keepyour sister out of his sight. She can't stay alone with him in thishouse, and she can't go now to your anarchist friend. If she does it maybe the end of your father. Suppose you persuade her to come to you. "

But here Eleanore joined us. 

"I have a better plan, " she said. "I've been talking to Sue and she hasagreed. She's to stay--and we'll move over here and try to keep Sue andher father apart. "

"What about Joe?" I asked her. 

"Sue has promised me not to see Joe until the strike is over. It willonly be a matter of weeks--perhaps even days--it may break outto-morrow. It's not much of a time for Joe to get married--besides, it'sthe least she can do for her father--to wait that long. And she hasagreed. So that much is settled. "

She went home to pack up a few things for the night. When she came backit was evening. She spent some time with Sue in her room, while I stayedin with father. I gave him a powder the doctor had left and he was soonsleeping heavily. 

At last in my old bedroom Eleanore and I were alone. It was a long timebefore we could sleep. 

"Funny, " said Eleanore presently, "how thoroughly selfish people can be. Here's Sue and your father going through a perfectly ghastly crisis. ButI haven't been thinking of them--not at all. I've been thinking ofus--of you, I mean--of what this strike will do to you. You're gettingso terribly tense these days. "

I reached over and took her hand:

"You don't want me to run away from it now?"

"No, " she said quickly. "I don't want that. I've told you that I'm notafraid----"

"Then we'll have to wait and see, won't we, dear? We can't helpourselves now. I've got to keep on writing, you know--we depend on thatfor our living. And I can't write what I did before--I don't seem tohave it in me. So I'm going into this strike as hard as I can--I'm goingto watch it as hard as I can and think it out as clearly. I know I'llnever be like Joe--but I do feel now I'm going to change. I've gotto--after what I've been shown. The harbor is so different now. Don'tyou understand?"

I felt her hand slowly tighten on mine. 

"Yes, dear, " she said, "I understand----"

CHAPTER XII

The events of that day dropped out of my mind in the turbulent weeksthat followed. For day by day I felt myself sink deeper and deeper intothe crowd, into surging multitudes of men--till something that I founddown there lifted me up and swept me on--into a strange new harbor. 

Of the strike I can give only one man's view, what I could see with myone pair of eyes in that swiftly spreading confusion that soon embracedthe whole port of New York and other ports both here and abroad. Warcorrespondents, I suppose, must feel the same chaos around them, but inmy case it rose from within me as well. I was like a war correspondentwho is trying to make up his mind about war. What was good in this laborrebellion? What was bad? Where was it taking me?

From the beginning I could feel that it meant for me a breaking of tieswith the safe strong world that had been my life. I felt this firstbefore the strike, when I went to my magazine editor. He had taken mystory about Jim Marsh, but when I came to him now and told him that Iwanted to cover the strike, "Go ahead if you like, " he answered, a weary indulgence in his tone, "Idon't want to interfere in your work. But I can't promise you now thatwe'll buy it. If you feel you must write up this strike you'll have todo it at your own risk. "

"Why?" I asked. For years my work had been ordered ahead. I thought ofthat small apartment of ours, of my father sick at home--and I feltmyself suddenly insecure. 

"Because, " he answered coolly, "I'm not quite sure that what you writewill be a fair unbiassed presentation of the facts. I've seen so manygood reporters utterly spoiled in strikes like this. They lose theirwhole sense of proportion and never seem to get it quite back. "

This little talk left me deeply disturbed. But I was unwilling to giveup my plan, and so, after some anxious thinking, I decided to free-lanceit. After all, if this one story didn't sell I could borrow until Iwrote something that did. And I set to work with an angry vim. The verythought that my old world was closing up behind me made my mind the moreready now for the new world opening ahead. 

From the old house in Brooklyn I once more explored my harbor. All dayand the greater part of each night I went back over my old ground. Oldmemories rose in sharp contrast to new views I was getting. From the topI had come to the bottom. Crowds of sweating laborers rose everywherebetween me and my past. And as between me and my past, and between thesemasses and their rulers, I felt the struggle drawing near, the wholeimmense region took on for me the aspect of a battlefield, with puffsand clouds and darting lines of smoke and steam from its ships andtrains and factories. Through it I moved confusedly, troubled andabsorbed. 

I saw the work of the harbor go now with an even mightier rush, becauseof the impending strike. The rumor of its coming had spread far over thecountry, and shippers were hurrying cargoes in. I saw boxes and barrelsby thousands marked "Rush. " And they were rushed! On one dock I saw thedockers begin at seven in the morning and when I came back late in theevening the same men were there. At midnight I went home to sleep. WhenI came back at daybreak the same men were there, and I watched themstraining through the last rush until the ship sailed that day at noon. They had worked for twenty-nine hours. In that last hour I drewclose--so close that I could feel them heaving, sweating, panting, feeltheir laboring hearts and lungs. Long ago I had watched them thus, butthen I had seen from a different world. I had felt the pulse of a nationbeating and I had gloried in its speed. But now I felt the pulse-beatsof exhausted straining men, I saw that undertaker's sign staring fixedlyfrom across the way. "_Certainly_ I'm talking to you!" Six thousandkilled and injured!

I saw accidents that week. I saw a Polish docker knocked on the head bythe end of a heavy chain that broke. I saw a little Italian caught bythe foot in a rope net, swung yelling with terror into the air, thendropped--his leg was broken. And toward the end of a long night's work Isaw a tired man slip and fall with a huge bag on his shoulders. The bagcame down on top of him, and he lay there white and still. Later Ilearned that his spine had been broken, that he would be paralyzed forlife. 

But what I saw was only a part. From the policemen's books alone I founda record for that week of six dockers killed and eighty-seven injured. Itraced about a score of these cases back into their tenement homes, andthere I found haggard, crippled men and silent, anxious women, themothers of small children. Curious and deeply thrilled, these childrenlooked at the man on the bed, between his groans of pain I heard theireager questions, they kept getting in their mother's way. One thinItalian mother, whose nerves were plainly all on edge, suddenly slappedthe child at her skirts, and then when it began to cry she herself burstinto tears. 

These tragic people gripped me hard. The stokers down in their foul holein the bottom of the ship had only disturbed and repelled me. But thesecrippled dockers in their homes, with their women and their children, their shattered lives, their agony, starvation looming up ahead--theybrought a tightening at my throat--nor was it all of pity. For theselabor victims were not dumb, I heard the word "strike!" spoken bitterlyhere, and now I felt that they had a right to this bitter passion ofrevolt. 

But still I felt their way was wrong. How could any real good, any sureintelligent remedies for all this fearful misery, come out of the mindsof such people as these, who were rushing so blindly into revolt? I wentinto saloons full of dockers and stokers, and out of the low harshhubbub there the word "strike!" came repeatedly to my ears, recklesslyfrom drunken tongues. Wherever I went I heard that word. I heard itspoken in many languages, in many tones. Anxious old women said"strike!" with fear. Little street urchins shouted it joyously. Even thegreenest foreigner understood its meaning. A little Greek, who hadbroken his arm and was one of the cases I traced home, understood noneof my questions. "You speak no English?" He shook his head. "Strike!" Iventured. Up he leaped. "Yo' bet!" he cried emphatically. 

What was it deep within me that leaped up then as though to meet thatburning passion in his eyes?

"Keep your head, " I warned myself. "To change all this means years ofwork--thinking of the clearest kind. And what clear thinking can thesemen do? The ships have got them down so low they've no minds left to getout of their holes!"

And yet--as now on every dock, that "strike feeling" in the air keptgrowing tenser, tenser--its tensity crept into me. What was it that layjust ahead? I felt like a man starting out on a journey--a journey fromwhich when he comes back he will find nothing quite the same. 

I had a talk about the strike one day with Eleanore's father. I canstill see the affectionate smile on his face, he looked as though hewere seeing me off. 

"My dear boy, " he said, in his kind quiet voice, "don't forget for evena minute that the men who stand behind my work are going to stamp outthis strike. This modern world is too complex to allow brute force andviolence to wreck all that civilization has done. I'm sorry you've goneinto this--but so long as you have, as Eleanore's father, I want you nowto promise you won't write a line until the strike is over and you havehad plenty of time to get clear. Don't let yourself get swamped inthis--remember that you have a wife and a small son to think of. "

My father had put it more sharply. He was out of bed now and he seemedto take strength from the news reports that he eagerly read of thestruggle so fast approaching. 

"At sea, " he said, "when stokers try to quit their jobs and force theirway on deck, they're either put in irons or shot down as mutineers. You'll see your friend Kramer dead or in jail. No danger to your sisternow. Only see that _you_ keep out of it!"

I did not tell him of my work, for I knew it would only excite himagain, and excitement would be dangerous. 

"Now you and Eleanore must go home, " said Sue that night. "You'll haveenough to think of. I'll be all right with father--he knows there'snothing to do but wait, and he's so kind to me now that it hurts. Poorold Dad--how well he means. But he's the old and we're the new--andthat's the whole trouble between us. " A sudden light came in her eyes. "The new are bound to win!" she said. 

But I was not so sure of the new. To me it was still very vague andchaotic. After we had moved back to New York, at the times when I camehome to sleep, Eleanore was silent or quietly casual in her remarks, butI felt her always watching me. One night when I came in very late andthought her asleep, being too tired to sleep myself, I went to ourbedroom window and stood looking off down, into the distant expanse ofthe harbor. How quiet and cool it seemed down there. But presently outof the darkness behind, Eleanore's arm came around me. 

"I wonder whether the harbor will ever let us alone, " she said. "It wasso good to us at first--we were getting on so splendidly. But it'staking hold of us now again--as though we had wandered too far away andwere living too smoothly and needed a jolt. Never mind, we're notafraid. Only let's be very sure we know what we are doing. "

"We'll be very sure, " I whispered, and I held her very close. 

"Let's try to be sure together, " she said. "Don't leave me out--I wantto be in. I want to see as much as I can--and help in any way I can. Ifyou make any friends I want to know them. Remember that whatever comes, thy people shall be mine, my dear. "

 * * * * *

The next day the strike began. 

Out of the docks at nine in the morning I saw dockers pour in crowds. They moved on to other docks, merged themselves in other crowds, scattered here and gathered there, until at last a black tide of men, here straggling wide, here densely massed, moved slowly along thewaterfront. 

In and out of these surging throngs I moved, so close that in the quiverof muscles, the excited movements of big limbs, the rough eagerness ofvoices that spoke in a babel of many tongues, such a storm of emotionsbeat in upon me that I felt I had suddenly dived into an ocean of humanbeings, each one of whom was as human as I. I caught a glimpse of Joehurrying by. And I thought of Sue, and of Joe's appeal to her and to meto throw in our lives with such strangers as these whose coarse heavyfaces were pressing so close. And I thought of Eleanore at home. "Thypeople shall be mine, my dear. "

Teamsters drove clattering trucks through the crowds. Some of them didnot unload, but others dumped piles of freight by the docks. The dam hadbegun. All day long the freight piled up, and by evening the light of apale moon shone down upon acres of barrels and boxes. Then the teamstersunharnessed their teams, left the empty trucks with poles in air, andthe teamsters and their horses and all the crowds of strikers scatteredby degrees up into the tenement regions. Bursts of laughter and singingcame now and then out of the saloons. 

Silence settled down over the docks. Walking now down the waterfront Imet only a figure here and there. A taxi came tearing and screeching by, and later down the long empty space came a single wagon slowly. A smokylantern swung under its wheels, and its old white horse with his shaggyhead down came plodding wearily along. He alone had no strike feeling. 

Battered and worn from the day's impressions I wanted to be alone and tothink. I made my way in and out among trucks and around a dockshed outto a slip. It was filled with barges, tugs and floats jammed in betweenthe two big vessels that loomed one at either pier. It was a dark jumbleof spars and masts, derricks, funnels and cabin roofs, all shadowy andsilent. A single light gleamed here and there from the long dark deck ofthe Morgan coaster close to my right. She was heavily loaded still, forshe had come to dock too late. Smoke still drifted from her stoutfunnel, steam puffed now and then from her side. Behind her, reaching amile to the North, were ships by the dozen, coasters and great oceanliners, loaded and waiting to discharge or empty and waiting to reload. And to the South were miles of railroad sheds already packed tobursting. I thought of the trains from all over the land still rushing anation's produce here, and of the starlit ocean roads, of ships comingfrom all over the world, the men in their fiery caverns below feedingfaster the fires to quicken their speed, all bringing cargoes to thisport. More barrels, boxes, crates and bags to be piled high up on thewaterfront. For the workers had gone away from their work, and the greatwhite ships were still. 

"What has all this to do with me?"

There came into my mind the picture of a little man I had seen that day, a suburban commuter by his looks, frowning from a ferryboat upon acheering crowd of strikers. I laughed to myself as I thought of him. Hehad seemed so ludicrously small. 

"Yes, my friend, " I thought, "you and I are a couple of two-spots here, swallowed up in the scenery. "

I thought of what Joe had said that day: "When you see the crowd, in astrike like this, loosen up and show all it could be if it had thechance--that sight is so big it blots you out--you sink--you melt intothe crowd. "

Something like that happened to me. I had seen the multitudes "loosenup, " I had felt myself melt into the crowd. But I had not seen what theycould be nor did I see what they could do. Far to the south, high overall the squalid tenement dwellings, rose that tower of lights I hadknown so well, the airy place where Eleanore's father had dreamed andplanned his clean vigorous world. It was lighted to-night as usual, asthough nothing whatever had happened. I thought of the men I had seenthat day. How crassly ignorant they seemed. And yet in a few brief hoursthey had paralyzed all that the tower had planned, reduced it all tosilence, nothing. Could it be that such upheavals as these meant an endto the rule of the world from above, by the keen minds of the men at thetop? Was that great idol which had been mine for so many glad years, that last of my gods, Efficiency, beginning to rock a little now uponits deep foundations?

What could these men ever put in its place? I recalled the words of anold dock watchman with whom I had talked the evening before. From thedays of the Knights of Labor he had been through many strikes, and allhad failed, he told me. His dog sat there beside him, a solemn old redspaniel, looking wistfully into his master's face. And with somewhat thesame expression, looking out on the moonlit Hudson, the old striker hadsaid slowly:

"Before these labor leaders will do half of what they say--a pile ofwater will have to go by. "

A sharp slight sound behind me jerked me suddenly out of my thoughts. Ijumped as though at a shot. How infernally tight my nerves were getting. The sound had come from a mere piece of paper blown by the wind--a roughsalt wind which now blew in from the ocean as though impatient of allthis stillness. From below came a lapping and slapping of waves. Aboveme a derrick mast growled and whined as it rocked. And now as I lookedabout me all those densely crowded derricks moved to and fro against thesky. I had never felt in this watery world such deep restlessness asnow. 

"I wonder if you'll ever stop heaving, " I thought half angrily. "Iwonder what I'll be like when you finally get through with me. When willyou ever let me stand pat and get things settled for good and all? Whenstop this endless starting out?"

CHAPTER XIII

What could such men as these raise up in place of the mighty life theyhad stilled?

At first only chaos. 

As I went along the waterfront I felt a confused disappointment. Deepunder all my questioning there had been a vague subconscious hope that Iwould see a miracle here. I had looked for an army. I saw only mobs ofangry men. They were "picketing" the docks, here making furious rushesat men suspected of being "scabs, " there clustering quickly around sometalker or some man who was reading a paper, again drifting up into thestreets of teeming foreign quarters, jamming into barrooms, voicingwildest rumors, talking, shouting, pounding tables with huge fists. Andto me there was nothing inspiring but only something terrible here, anappalling force turned loose, sightless and unguided. What a fool I hadbeen to hope. The harbor held no miracles. 

The strike leaders seemed to have little control. Headquarters were inthe wildest disorder. Into the big bare meeting hall and through therooms adjoining drifted multitudes of men. There were no inner privaterooms and Marsh saw everyone who came. He was constantly shaking handsor drawling casual orders, more like suggestions than commands. I caughtsight of Joe Kramer's face at his desk, where he was signing and givingout union cards to a changing throng that kept pressing around him. Joe's face was set and haggard. He had been at that desk all night. 

"It's hopeless. They can do nothing, " I thought. 

But when I came back the next morning I felt a sudden shock ofsurprise. For in some mysterious fashion a crude order had appeared. Thestriker throng had poured into the hall, filled all the seats and thenwedged in around the walls. They were silent and attentive now. On thestage sat Marsh and his fellow leaders. Before them in the first threerows of seats was the Central Committee, a rough parliament sprung upover night. Each member, I found, had been elected the night before byhis "district committee. " These district bodies had somehow formed inthe last two days and in them leaders had arisen. The leaders were hereto plan together, the mass was here to make sure they planned right. Andwatching the deep rough eagerness on all those silent faces, that vaguehope stirred again in my breast. 

Presently I caught Joe's eye. At once he left his platform seat and cameto me in the rear of the hall. 

"Come on, Bill, " he said. "We want you up here. " And we made our way upto the platform. There Marsh reached over and gripped my hand. 

"Hello, Bill, glad you're with us, " he said. I tingled slightly at histone and at a thousand friendly eyes that met mine for an instant. Thenit was over. The work went on. 

What they did at first seemed haphazard enough. Reports from thedistricts were being read with frequent interruptions, petty correctionsand useless discussions that strayed from the point and made meimpatient. And yet wide vistas opened here. Telegrams by the dozen wereread from labor unions all over the country, from groups of socialistsEast and West, there were cables from England, Germany, France, fromRussia, Poland, Norway, from Italy, Spain and even Japan. "Greetings toour comrades!" came pouring in from all over the earth. What measurelessarmy of labor was this? All at once the dense mass in the rear wouldpart to let a new body of men march through. These were new strikers toswell the ranks, and at their coming all business would stop, therewould be wild cheers and stamping of feet, shrill whistles, pandemonium!

Gradually I began to feel what was happening in this hall. That first"strike feeling"--diffused, shifting and uncertain--was condensing as ina storm cloud here, swelling, thickening, whirling, attracting swiftlyto itself all these floating forces. Here was the first awakening ofthat mass thought and passion, which swelling later into full life wasto give me such flashes of insight into the deep buried resources of thecommon herd of mankind, their resources and their power of vision whenthey are joined and fused in a mass. Here in a few hours the greatspirit of the crowd was born. 

For now the crowd began to question, think and plan. Ideas were thrownout pell mell. I found that every plan of action, everything felt andthought and spoken, though it might start from a single man, was at oncetransformed by the feeling of all, expressed in fragments of speech, inapplause, or in loud bursts of laughter, or again by a chilling silencein which an unwelcome thought soon died. The crowd spoke its willthrough many voices, through men who sprang up and talked hard a fewmoments, then sat down and were lost to sight--some to rise later againand again and grow in force of thought and expression, others not to beseen again, they had simply been parts of the crowd, and the crowd hadmade them rise and speak. 

On the first day of this labor parliament, up rose a stolid Pole. He wasno committeeman but simply a member of the throng. 

"Yo' sand a spickair to my dock, " he said. "Pier feefty-two--EastReever. I t'ink he make de boys come out. " He sat down breathingheavily. 

"You don't need any speaker, go yourself, " an Irishman called fromacross the hall. 

"I no spick, " said the Pole emphatically. 

"You're spicking now, ain't you?" There was a burst of laughter, andthe big man's face grew red. "You don't need to talk, " the voice wenton. "Just go into your dock and yell 'Strike!' You've got chest enough, you Pollock. "

The big Pole made his way out of the hall. In the rear I saw him lighthis pipe and puff and scowl in a puzzled way. Then he disappeared. Thenext day, in the midst of some discussion, he rose from another part ofthe hall. 

"I want to say I strike my dock, " he shouted. Nobody seemed to hear him, it had nothing whatever to do with the subject, but he sat down with aglow of pride. 

A Norwegian had arisen and was speaking earnestly, but his English wasso wonderful that no one could understand. 

"Shut up, you big Swede, go and learn English, " somebody said. 

"He don't have to shut up. " The voice of Marsh cut in, and the massbacked up his curt rebuke by a murmur of approval. He had risen and comeforward, and now waited till there was absolute silence. "Everyone getsa hearing here, " he said. "We've got nine nationalities, but each onechecks his race at the door. Every man is to have a fair show. What weneed is an interpreter. Where's someone who can help this Swede?"

There was a quick stirring in the mass and then a man was shoved out ofit. He went over to the speaker, who at once began talking intensely. 

"The first thing he wants to say, " said the interpreter at the end ofthe torrent, "is that he'd rather be dead than a Swede. He says he's aNorwegian. His second point is that all bad feeling betweennationalities ought to be stopped if the strike's to be won. He sayshe's seen fights already between Irish and Eyetalians. "

Up leaped an enormous negro docker who sounded as though he preachedoften on Sundays. 

"Yes, brothers, " he boomed, "let us stop our fights. Let us desist--letus refrain. We are men from all countries, black and white. The lastspeaker came from Norway--he came from way up there in the North. Myfather came from Africa----"

"He must have come last Monday, " said a dry, thin voice from the back ofthe hall, and there was a laugh. 

"Brothers, " cried the black man, "I come here from the colored race. Atmy dock I got over sixty negroes to walk out. Is there no place for usin this strike? If my father was a slave, is my color so against me?"

"It ain't your color, it's your scabbing, " a sharp voice interrupted. "They broke the last strike with coons like you. They brought you up inboats from the South. And you scabbed--you scabbed yourself! Didn't you?You did! You ---- of a nigger!"

A little Italian sprang up in reply. He did not look like a docker. Hewas gaily dressed in a neat blue suit with a bright red tie:

"Fellow workers--I am Italian man! You call me Guinney, Dago, Wop--youcall another man Coon, Nigger--you call another man a Sheeny! Stopcalling names--call men fellow workers! We are on strike--let us notfight each other--let us have peace--let us have a good time! I know aman who has a big boat--and he say now we can have it for nothing--totake our wives and children and make excursions every day. On the boatwe will have a good time. I am a musician--I play the violin on a boattill I strike--so now I will get you the music. And we shall run thatboat ourselves! We have our own dockers to start it from dock--we haveour own stokers, our own engineers--we have our own pilots--we have all!And it will be easy to steer that boat--for we have made the harborempty--we shall have the whole place to ourselves! Some day maybe soonwe have all the boats in the world for ourselves--and we shall be free!All battle boats we shall sink in the sea--we stop all wars! So now webegin--we stop all our fighting--we take out this boat--all ourcomrades on board! No coons, no niggers, no sheenies, no wops! Fellowworkers--I tell you the name of our boat! _The Internationale!_"

The little man's speech was greeted with a sudden roar of applause. Forthe crowd had seen at once this danger of race hatred and was eager toput it down. _The Internationale_ made her first trip on the followingday, and after that her daily cruise became the gala event of thestrike. Both decks of the clumsy craft were packed with strikers, theirwives and their children, and all up and down the harbor she went. Thelittle Italian and his friends had had printed a red pamphlet, "Revolutionary Songs of the Sea, " the solos of which he sang on the boatwhile the rest came in on the chorus. A new kind of a "chanty man" washe, voicing the wrongs and the fierce revolt and the surging hopes andlongings of all the toilers on the sea--while this ship that was run bythe workers themselves plowed over a strange new harbor. I watched itone day from the end of a pier. It approached with a swelling volume ofsong. It drew so near I could see the flushed faces of those who weresinging, some with their eyes on their leader's face, others singing outover the water as though they were spreading far and wide the exultantprophecy of that song. It passed, the singing died away--and still I satthere wondering. 

"We shall have all the boats in the world for ourselves--and we shall befree! All battle boats we shall sink in the sea! We stop all wars! Sonow we begin!"

Was it indeed a beginning? Was this the opening measure of music thatwould be heard round the world? My mind rejected the idea, I thought itmerest madness. But still that song rang in my ears. What deepcompelling force was here--this curious power of the crowd that had sosuddenly gripped hold of this simple Italian musician, this fiddler onexcursion boats, and in a few short days and nights had made him pourinto music the fire of its world-wide dreams?

I saw it seize on others. One day a young girl rose up in the hall. Astenographer on one of the docks, she was neatly, rather sprucelydressed, but her face was white and scared. She had never made a speechbefore. She was speaking now as though impelled by something she couldnot control. 

"Comrades--fellow workers. " Her voice trembled violently. She paused andset her teeth, went on. "How about the women and babies?" she asked. "Iknow of one who was born last night. And that's only one of a lot. Wehave thousands of kids and old people--sick people too, and cripples anddrunks--all that these lovely jobs of ours have left on our backs. They've got to be carried. Who's to take care of 'em, feed 'em, doctor'em? If we're going to run the earth let's begin at home. What doesanyone know about that?"

She sat down with a kind of a gasp of relief. Her seat was close to theplatform, and I could see her bright excited eyes as she listened towhat she had started here. For the crowd, as though it had only beenwaiting for this girl to speak its thought, now seized upon herquestion. Sharp voices were heard all over the hall. Some said theycould get doctors, others knew of empty stores that could be had fornothing and used as free food stations. An assistant cook from an oceanliner told where his chief bought wholesale supplies. And the girl whohad roused this discussion, her nervousness forgotten now, rose up againand again with so many quick, eager suggestions, that when the firstrelief station was opened that evening she was one of those placed incharge. 

I saw her grow amazingly, for now I came to know her well. Her name wasNora Ganey. At home that night when Eleanore said, "Remember, dear, Iwant something to do that will let me see the strike for myself"--Ithought at once of this work of relief. Eleanore would be good at this, she had trained herself in just such work. And it appealed to her atonce. She went down with me the next morning, and she and Nora Ganey, though their lives had been so different, yet proved at once to bekindred souls. Eleanore gave half her time to the work, and these twobecame fast friends. 

Before the strike Nora had sat all day in an office pounding atypewriter, several nights a week she had gone to dances in publichalls, and that had made her entire life. In the strike she was at herfood station all day, and each evening till late she visited homes, looking into appeals for aid and if need be issuing tickets for food. She heard the bitterest stories from wives of harbor victims, and shebegan telling these stories in speeches. Soon she was sent out over thecity to speak at meetings and ask for aid. With Eleanore I went onenight to hear this young stenographer speak to twenty thousand inMadison Square Garden. And the strike leader who made that speech wasnot the girl of two weeks before. Her life had been as utterly changedas though she had jumped to another world. 

Through Marsh and Joe, in those tense days, I was fast making strikerfriends. With some I had long intimate talks, I ate many kitchen suppersand spent many evenings in tenement homes. But though by degrees I feltmyself drawn to these men who called me "Bill, " when alone with each oneI felt little or none of that passion born of the crowd as a whole. Witha sharp drop, a sudden reaction, I would feel this new world gone. Itsstrength and its wide vision would seem like mere illusions now. Whatcould we little pigmies do with the world? Its guidance was for Dillonand all the big men I had known. Often in those days of groping, knottyproblems all unsolved, with a sickening hunger I would think of thosemen at the top, of their keen minds so thoroughly trained, their vastexperience in affairs. I would feel myself in a hopeless mob, a dense, heavy jungle of ignorant minds. And groping for a foothold here I wouldfind only chaos. 

But back we would go into the crowd, and there in a twinkling we wouldbe changed. Once more we were members of the whole and took on its hugepersonality. And again the vision came to me, the dream of a weary worldset free, a world where poverty and pain and all the bitterness theybring might in the end be swept away by this awakening giant here--whichday by day assumed for me a personality of its own. Slowly I began tofeel what It wanted, what It hated, how It planned and how It acted. Andthis to me was a miracle, the one great miracle of the strike. For yearsI had labored to train myself to concentrate on one man at a time, toshut out all else for weeks on end, to feel this man so vividly that hisself came into mine. Now with the same intensity I found myself strivingday and night to feel not one but thousands of men, a blurredbewildering multitude. And slowly in my striving I felt them fusetogether into one great being, look at me with two great eyes, speak tome with one deep voice, pour into me with one tremendous burning passionfor the freedom of mankind. 

Was this another god of mine?

CHAPTER XIV

The great voice of the crowd--incessant, demanding of me and of allwithin hearing to throw in our lives, to join in this march to a newfree world regardless of all risk to ourselves--grew clear to me now. 

I felt myself drawn in with the rest. I was helping in the publicitywork, each day I met with the leaders to draw up statements for thepress. And these messages to the outside world that I wrote to the slowand labored dictation of some burly docker comrade, or again by myselfat dawn to express the will of a meeting that had lasted half thenight--slowly became for me my own. Almost unawares I had taken thehabit of asking:

"How much can _we_ do? How sane and vigilant can _we_ be to keep clearof violence, bloodshed, mobs and a return to chaos? How long can we holdtogether fast? How far can we march toward this promised land?"

In order to see ourselves as a whole and feel our swiftly swellingstrength, having now burst the confines of our hall, we began to holdmeetings out on "the Farm. " There are many "farms" on the waterfront, for a "farm" is simply the open shore space in front of a dock. Butthis, which was one of the widest of all, now came to be spoken of as"the Farm, " and took on an atmosphere all its own. For there were sceneshere which will long endure in the memories of thousands of people. Forthem it will be a great bright spot in the times gone by--in one ofthose times behind the times, as this strange world keeps rushing on. 

From the top of a pile of sand, where I stood with the speakers at theend of a soft April day, I saw the whole Farm massed solid with people. This mass rose in hummocks and hills of humanity over the piles of brickand sand and of crates and barrels dumped by the trucks, and out overthe water they covered the barges and the tugs, and there were evenhundreds upon the roofs of docksheds. The yelp of a dog was heard nowand then and the faint cries of children. But the mass as a whole stoodmotionless, without a sound. They had stood thus since two o'clock, andnow the sun was setting. To the west the harbor was empty, no smoke fromships obscured the sun, and it shone with radiant clearness upon elevenraces of men, upon Italians, Germans, French, on English, Poles andRussians, on Negroes and Norwegians, Lascars, Malays, Coolies, onfigures burly, figures puny, faces white and faces swarthy, yellow, brown and black. The sun shone upon all alike--except where that Morganliner, still lying unloaded at her dock, threw a long dark creepingshadow out across the throng. 

Thirty thousand people were here. Thirty thousand intensely alive. As Ieagerly watched their faces it was not their poverty now but theirboundless fresh vitality that took hold of me so hard. I had read manyradical books of late, in my groping for a foothold, and I had foundmost of them dry affairs. But now the crowd through its leaders had laidhold upon the thoughts in these books, had made them its own and sogiven them life. In the process the thoughts had been twisted and bent, some parts ignored and others brought out of all their nice proportions. Exaggeration, sentiment, all kinds of crudity were here. But it wascrudity alive, a creed was here in action. Out of all the turmoil, thetake and give, the jar and clash back there in the meeting hall, hadcome certain thoughts and passions, hopes and plans, that the multitudehad not ignored or hooted but had caught up and cheered into life. Andthese ideas that they had cheered were now being pounded back into theirminds. Monotonous repetition, you say? Yes, monotonous repetition--slowsledgehammer blows upon something red hot--pounding, pounding, pounding--that when it cooled its shape might be changed. 

Nora Ganey was speaking. 

"Look at those ocean liners!" she cried. Her voice was sharp andstrident. "They're paralyzed now, and because they are they're costingthe big companies millions of dollars every day. That's what their timeis worth to their owners. But what are those ships worth to you? Tendollars a week and a broken arm--or a leg or a skull, you can take yourchoice. Six thousand of you men were crippled or crushed to death lastyear--and that, let me remind you, was only in the port of New York. Whywas it? Why did it have to be? And why will it always have to be untilyou make these ships your own? Because, fellow workers, the time of theships is worth so much to their owners that the work has got to berushed day and night--and in that rush somebody's bound to get hurt--ifhe isn't killed he's lucky! And as for the rest, when at last you'rethrough and dead tired--they point to the saloons and say, 'Now have afew drinks! We won't need you again till next Tuesday'! Do you know whatall this means in your homes? It means drunks, cripples, sick and poor!It means such sights as I'll never forget. I've seen 'em all--justlately!

"I never thought of such things before. I liked my office job on thedock and all the jobs around me--and when sailing time drew near I likedthe last excitement. I liked the rich furs and dresses and the cutelittle earrings and slippers and dogs that were attached to the womenwho came. I liked to see them pile out of their motors and laugh andmake eyes at the men they belonged to. I liked to peep into the cabinsthey had--get on to all the luxuries there. 

"But out of all this magnificence, friends, and this work that keeps itgoing--I saw one day a man come on a stretcher. He was dead. And thatstarted me thinking. That's why I came out when the strike was called. And in the strike I've gone into your homes. I've seen what those softexpensive female dolls and all the work that makes them costs. And I'vegot a thrill of another kind! It's a thrill that'll last for the rest ofmy life! And in yours, too, fellow workers! For I believe that you'll goright on--that you'll strike and strike and strike again--till you makethese tenements own these ships--and a life won't be thrown away for adollar!"

She stopped sharply and stepped back, and there burst out a frenzy ofapplause, which died down to be caught up and prolonged and deepenedinto a steady roar, as Marsh came slowly forward. He stood therebareheaded, impassive and quiet, listening to the great voice of themass. At last he turned to the chairman. The latter picked up a whistle, and at that piercing call to order slowly the cheering began to subside. Faces pressed eagerly closer. Marsh looked all around him. 

"Fellow workers, " he began, "it's hard for a man to be understood whenhe's talking to men from all over the world. " He pointed down to acluster of Lascars with white turbans on their heads. "_You_ don'tunderstand me. But some of your comrades will give you my speech, for weare all strike brothers here. On the ship there is no flag--on the shipthere is no nation--on the ship there is only work--on the ship thereare only the workers!

"For a ship may be equipped with the most powerful engines to driveher--she may have the best brains to direct her course--but the shipcan't sail until you go aboard! You're the men who make the ships ofuse, you're the men who give value to the stock of all the big shipcompanies! You are the ship industry--and to you the ship industryshould belong!

"I want you now to think of a tombstone. Out in the Atlantic, two milesdown they tell me, a big ship is stuck with her bow in the ooze of theocean floor and her stern six hundred feet up in the water. In the coldgreen light down there she looks like a tombstone--and she is packedwith dead people inside. She is there because where she should have hadlifeboats she had French cafés instead, and sun parlors for the ladies. Some of these ladies went down with the ship, and we heard a lot abouttheir screams. But we haven't heard much of the cries for help of thethousands of men who go down every year in rotten old ships upon theseas! Nor have we heard of the millions more who are killed on land--onthe railroads, in the mines and mills and stinking slums of cities!

"But now we've decided that cries like these are to be heard all overthe world. For we've only got one life apiece--we're not quite sure ofanother. And because we do all the work that is done we want all thelife there is to be had! All the life there is to be had--that's what weare striking for! That is our share of the life in this world! And untilwe get our share this labor war will have no end! Other wars may comeand go--but under them all on land and sea this war of ours will gosteadily on--will swallow up all other wars--will swallow up in all yourminds all hatred of your brother men! For you they will be workers all!With them you will rise--and the world will be free!"

 * * * * *

When the long stormy din of cheers had little by little died away JoeKramer began the last speech of the day. He had eaten and slept little, he had lived on coffee and cigarettes, and there was a strained look inhis deep eyes as he rose up lean and gaunt by my side. 

"I'm here to-day to speak to the men who work in stokeholes naked, " hesaid. "I'm here to talk of the lives you lead--the lives that millionsbefore you have led--for a few brief years--and then they have died. Forlives in stokeholes are not long. And before I begin I propose that westand for a moment with uncovered heads. " He looked out over themultitude as though seeing far beyond them, and his voice was as harshas the look in his eyes. "As a tribute to all the dead stokers, " hesaid. 

And in a breathless silence the multitude did what he had asked. Joebroke this silence sharply. 

"Now for life and the living, " he said. "Why was it that those men alldied? What has the change from sails to steam done to the lives of themen at sea?

"The old sailor at least had air to breathe. But what you breathe is redhot gas--I know because I've been there. There is a gong upon the wall, and when it clangs you heave in coal, and if when it clangs faster youdon't keep quite up to its pace, a white light flashes out of the wall, and that light is the Chief Engineer's way of saying, 'God damn you, keep up those fires down there! Time is money! Who are you?'

"The old-time sailor lived on deck. He had the winds, the sun and thestars. But you live down between steel walls--with only the glare ofelectric lights in which you sleep and eat and sweat. You work at allkinds of irregular hours, for you there is no day or night. You don'tknow whether the millionaire and his last and loveliest wife aredrinking champagne before going to bed, in their cabin de luxe aboveyou, or taking their coffee the next day at noon. You don't know aboutanything way up there--unless you go up as I've seen you do, half out ofyour senses from the heat, and make a sudden jump for the rail. The cryis heard--'Man overboard!'--then shrieks and a chorus of 'Oh-my-God's!'And then somebody says, 'It's only a stoker. '"

He stopped short, and at the sudden roar of the crowd I saw him frownand quiver. He drew a deep, slow breath and went on:

"They threw off all the good in the ship with sails--but they carefullykept all that was bad. The old mutiny laws--they kept all that. Undermanning of crews--they kept all that. The waterfront sharks--theykept all that. But there was one thing they couldn't keep--the oldsailor's habit of standing all this! He had run away to sea as a boy, he'd been kicked all his life by the bucko mate into a state where hecouldn't kick back. But with you men it is not so. Among all thethousands standing here most were on shore a few years ago, and you tookyour land views with you on board. You organized seamen's unions. Theone in this country was meek and mild. It did not strike, it went on itsknees to Congress instead, and here's part of the written petition itmade. 'We raise our manacled hands in humble supplication--and we praythat the nations of the earth issue a decree for our emancipation--restoreus our rights as brother men. ' But Congress had no ear for you then. Sailors are men who have no votes. And so you failed in your pleading. 

"But in the labor movement there seems to be no such word as fail! Youhave not given up your union--instead you have formed one of a kind moredangerous to your masters! You have not made smaller your requests--no, you are now demanding more! And instead of asking for merciful laws youare saying, 'We are done with your laws, will have none of your laws, will break your laws when they come in our way!'

"And what do your masters answer? Here are thousands of deserters--everyman here has broken the law by leaving his ship! But have they tried toarrest you? No! They're afraid to arrest twenty thousand men, they'reafraid of this strike, they're afraid of you! They're so almighty scareddowntown that though we've been only a week on strike they've alreadysent their commands to their Congress to give us what merciful laws welike. They're scared because we've thrown over their laws--because theyknow that we now see our power--to stop all their ships and the trade oftheir land and send their stock market into a panic!

"And now do you know what I want you to do? I want you to look at theirships, at their docks, at their harbor, men--and laugh--laugh! Don't yousee there's no need of violence? Laugh! In old times the people builtbarricades. You don't need barricades nor any guns--all you've got to dois to stand here and laugh! Look at all you have done to yourbosses--and laugh! To this town, to this nation--and laugh, laugh!Look--and think--of what you _can_ do--all you--and you--and you--andyou--by just folding your arms! Think of all you _will_ do! Andlaugh--laugh! Laugh! Laugh!"

He broke off with both arms raised, and there followed one momentwithout a sound. Then suddenly, quick and hard and clear, from a cornerof this human ocean, I heard a single peal of laughter. In an instantscores joined in. Rising in outbursts here and there, deepening, rushingout over the Farm, it gathered and rolled in wave on wave, rising, always rising. And it swelled into such a laugh that I saw the policefeel for their clubs. Reporters scrambled for high places, turned theirkodaks on it all. Women snatched up their babies in terror and ran. Marsh stepped forward, caught Joe by the arm and jerked him back towhere I was standing. I gripped Joe's hand, it was icy cold. 

Marsh shouted to the chairman, and the piercing whistle for order washeard. But it took a long time for that laugh to die. Long after themeeting had broken up I saw groups gather together, and presently theywould begin to laugh, and their laughter would take on again that sameconvulsive tensity. I heard small clusters laughing, and dense throngsin hot saloons where the low rooms would echo and double the roar. 

Late at night out on the waterfront, under the bow of that Morgan ship, I found two strikers smoking their pipes, and I sat down and lightedmine. One was a Lascar, the other a Pole. In the strike these wanderersover the earth had met on the waterfront under a wagon where each hadcome to sleep the night. Since then they had become good friends. Eachspoke a little English, each one had caught bits here and there from thespeeches made that afternoon--and they had been trying to pool whatthey'd heard, trying to find why it was they had laughed. As now I triedto give them the gist of what Joe Kramer had said, from time to timethey would glance up at the big ship they had paralyzed and chucklesoftly to themselves. 

Then I went on to Marsh's speech. And out there in the darkness I couldfeel their rough faces, one white and one brown, grow deeply, eagerlyintent, as these strike brothers listened to the voice that had spokenthe dream of the crowd:

"Other wars may come and go--but under them all on land and sea this warof ours will go steadily on--will swallow up all other wars--willswallow up in all your minds all hatred of your brother men. For youthey will be workers all. With them you will rise--and the world will befree. "

CHAPTER XV

To all this, from the buildings far downtown that loomed like tall grimshadows, the big companies said nothing. 

But that same night, while I sat talking to those two men, we heard asharp excited cry. We saw a man behind us running along the line ofsaloons. From these and from the tenements came pouring angry throngs ofmen. And out of the hubbub I caught the words, "They're bringing in the scabs! By boat!"

Past a watchman that I knew I ran into a dockshed and out to the openend of the dock. And there I saw a weird ominous scene. Up the emptyharbor, under a dark and cloudy sky, came four barges, black with negrolaborers, and ahead and around and behind them came police boatsthrowing their searchlights upon an angry swarm of union picket dories, from which as they drew nearer I heard furious voices shouting, "Scab!"One of the barges docked where I stood and the negroes quickly slunkinside. I drew back from them as they passed, for to me too they were"scabs" that night. Afraid to face the men outside, whose jobs they hadtaken, these strike-breakers were to live on the dock, under cover ofpolice. Soon half of them lay snoring on long crowded rows of cots. Foodand hot coffee were served to the rest. Then I heard the harsh rattle ofwinches, I saw these negroes trundling freight, the cargo went swoopingup into the ship--and with a deep dismay, a sharp foreboding of troubleahead, I felt the work of the harbor begun. 

I heard a quick voice at my elbow:

"Say. What the hell are _you_ doing here!" I turned to the Pinkerton manby my side:

"I'm reporting this strike. "

"No you're not, you're in here to report what you see to the strikers. Now don't let's have any words, my friend, we've seen you in theirmeeting-hall and we've all got your number. Go on out where you belong!"

So I went out where I belonged. 

I went out to the crowd--but I found it changed, split up into furiousswarms of men, I found the beginning of chaos here. And the world that Ihad left behind, the old world of order and rule from above, which I hadall but forgotten of late, now sharply made its presence felt. For thegod I had once known so well was neither dead nor sleeping. Behindclosed doors, the doors that had flown open once to show me everycourtesy, it had been silently laying plans and sending forth orders or"requests" to all those in its service. 

The next day the newspapers changed their tone. Until now they had givenus half the front page. Every statement I had written had been printedword for word. The reporters had been free to dig columns of "humaninterest stuff" out of the rich mine of color here, and they had gone atit hungrily, many with real sympathy. You would have thought the entirepress was on the side of the strikers, at times it had almost seemed tome as though the entire country had risen in revolt. But now all thiswas suddenly stopped, and in its place the front pages were filled withnews of a very different kind. "Big Companies Move at Last, " were theheadlines, "Work of Breaking Strike Begun. " The first ship would sailthat evening, three more would be ready to start the next day, andwithin a week the big companies hoped to resume the regular service. They regretted the loss to shippers of all the perishable produce whichto the value of millions of dollars had been rotting away at the docks. They deplored the inconvenience and ruin which had been brought on theinnocent public by these bodies of rough, irresponsible men who hadopenly defied the law. With such men there could be no arbitration, andin fact there was no need. The port would be open inside of a week. 

So the big companies spoke at last. And as I read the papers, at homethat day at breakfast, I remembered what Eleanore's father had said:"Don't let yourself forget for one minute that the men behind me aregoing to stamp out this strike. " Not without a fight, I thought. But Iwas anxious and depressed. Dillon had not come of late, he had felt thatwe wanted to be alone. As now I glanced at Eleanore, whose eyes wereintent on the news of the day, I saw with a rush of pity and love howalone she suddenly felt in all this. A moment later she looked up. 

"Pretty bad, isn't it, dear?" she said. 

"It doesn't look very fine just now. "

"Are you going down to the docks?"

"Yes, they'll want me, " I replied, "to write some answer to this stuff. "

"Can you wait a few moments?" Eleanore rose. "I'll get on my hat. Ipromised Nora Ganey I'd run her relief station for her to-day. " I tookher a moment in my arms:

"You're no quitter, are you?" I said. 

"We're in this now, " she answered, just a little breathlessly. "And soof course we'll see it through. "

So we went down together. 

The waterfront looked different now. In front of the docks where workhad begun a large space had been roped off. Inside the rope was anunbroken cordon of police. And without, but pressing close, themultitude of people for whom in a day so much had been changed, movedrestlessly, no longer sure of its power, no longer sure of anything buta fast rising hatred of the men who had taken their jobs. As at timesthe police lines tightened and the negroes came out for more freight, thousands of ominous eyes looked on. Standing here at one such time, Isaw a negro striker pass. His head was down and he walked quickly--forrace feeling had begun. 

The first ship sailed that evening. Tens of thousands watched her sail. And a bitter voice beside me said, "Laughing ain't going to be enough. "

Among men on strike there are two kinds of attitudes toward those whotake their places. The first is the scorn of the man who is winning. "You are a dirty scab, " it says. "You're a Judas to the working classand a thief who is trying to steal my job. But you won't get it, we'rebound to win, and you're barely worth kicking out of the way. " Thesecond is quite a different feeling. In this is the fear of the man whois losing--and fear, as an English writer has said, is the great motherof violence. "You _may keep_ my job! And if you do I'll be left withnothing to live on!" It is this second attitude which is dreaded bystrike leaders, for it leads to a loss of all control, to machine gunsand defeat. 

With a deepening uneasiness I saw this feeling now appear. Starting insmall groups of men, I saw it spread out over the mass with the speed ofa prairie fire. I felt it that afternoon on the Farm, changing with astartling speed that sure and mighty giant, the crowd, into a blinddisordered throng, a mottled mass of groups of men angrily discussingthe news. Threats against "scabs" were shouted out, the word "scab"arose on every side. Bitter things were said against "coons, " not only"scabs" but "all of 'em, God damn 'em!" There were hints of violence andopen threats of sabotage, things done to dock machinery. 

But presently, by slow degrees, as though by a deep instinct groping forthe giant spirit that had been its life and soul, I felt the crowd nowgather itself. Slowly the cries all died away and all eyes turned to theleader. Facing them with arms upraised, Marsh stood on the speakers'pile, his own face imperturbable, his own voice absolutely sure. 

"Boys, " he said, when silence had come, "one lonesome ship has gone tosea--so badly loaded, they tell me, that she ain't got even a chance ina storm. She was loaded by scabs. "

A savage storm of "booh's" burst forth. He waited until it subsided andthen continued quietly:

"We have no use for scabs, black or white. But we have use for strikers, _both_ black and white--our negro brothers are with us still, and we'llshow them we know that they are our brothers. We're going to standtogether, we won't let the bosses split us apart. And when we read thepapers to-morrow we're going to ask if the news is all there--not thelittle news in big headlines about a ship or two leaving port, but thebig news in a little paragraph, that you have so stopped this nation'strade that now its Congress is demanding that your masters come toterms! And as for this lonesome ship that has sailed, if you want to seejust how much that means, go down and look at Wall Street. They say downthere, 'We're all right now. ' But their market prices say, 'We're allwrong!'"

Suddenly out of the multitude there came a high, clear voice:

"You seem to know Wall Street, Brother Marsh. Have you been sellingshort down there? Who's your private broker?"

Instantly there was a rush toward the questioner, but a group of policeformed quickly around him and he was hurried out of the way. 

"Get after that, Jim, get after it quick!" said Joe by my side. AndMarsh lost not a moment. 

"Let that man go!" he shouted. "He was sent here to try to stir up ariot. That lie was framed up 'way downtown! But it is a lie and you allknow it--you know how I live and how my wife lives--we don't exactlyroll in wealth! But even if I were a crook, or if I were dead, thisstrike would go on exactly the same--for think a minute and you'll seethat whatever has been done in this struggle has been done each time byyou. It's you who have decided each point. It's you who have been calledhere to-day to decide the one big question. Congress has said, 'Arbitrate. ' It's for you all to decide on our answer. This is noone-man union, there is no one man they can fix, nor even a smallcommittee. We're a committee of fifty thousand here to make our own lawsfor ourselves. As you lift up your hands and vote, so it will bedecided. But before you do I want to say this. I care so little for WallStreet and I am so sure we'll win this strike, that with all thestrength I have in me I beg you to answer, 'No arbitration, nothing halfway! All or nothing!' If this is your answer, hold up your hands!"

Up went the hands by thousands, the crowd was all together now and againit spoke in one great roar. And with a sudden rush of hope I toldmyself, "It's still alive! This fight has only just begun!"

"That is our answer to Congress, " said Marsh, when again quiet had beenrestored. "That is the law which we have enacted. This strike is to befought through to the end. We are not to be scared by Wall Street orworked upon by their hired thugs and so resort to violence. I am notafraid of violence, " he continued sharply, "I am here to preach it. Butthe only violence I preach is the violence of folded arms. You havefolded your arms and their ships are dead. No other kind is so deadly asthat. Only hold to this kind of violence, and though they may send out aship here and there, this great port of New York will stayclosed--bringing ruin all over the land--till the nation turns to WallStreet and says, 'We cannot wait! You will have to give in!'"

As he ended his speech, it seemed to me as though he were reaching farout, gripping that throng and holding it in. But for how long could hehold them?

Every paper that they read had suddenly turned against them andprophesied their swift defeat. Two more ships sailed that night. And asMarsh had foretold, their sailing was played up in pictures and hugeheadlines, while the statement that I wrote was cut to one smallparagraph and put upon the second page. 

That night, with the eager aid of strikers of five nationalities, Iwrote a message to the crowd, translated it into German and French, Spanish, Italian and Polish. A socialist paper loaned us their press, and by noon our message was scattered in leaflets all up and down thewaterfront. This message went out daily now. For the greater part ofeach night I sat in strike headquarters and wrote direct to thetenements. 

 * * * * *

The next day Marsh proposed a parade, and the Farm took it up withprompt acclaim. He challenged the mayor of the city to stop it. Tofriends who came to him later he said:

"You tell the mayor that I'm doing my best to give these men somethingpeaceful to do. If he wants to help me, all well and good. If he don't, let him try to stop this parade. "

And the mayor granted a permit. 

The next afternoon the Fifth Avenue shops all closed their doors, andover the rich displays in their windows heavy steel shutters were rolleddown. The long procession of motors and cabs with their gaily dressedshoppers had disappeared, and in their place was another procession, men, women and children, old and young. All around me as I marched Iheard an unending torrent of voices speaking many languages, uniting instrange cheers and songs brought from all over the ocean world. Bright-colored turbans bobbed up here and there, for there was noseparation of races, all walked together in dense crowds, the wholestrike family was here. And listening and watching I felt myself amember now. Behind me came a long line of trucks packed with sick orcrippled men. At their head was a black banner on which was painted, "Our Wounded. " Behind the wagons a small cheap band came blaring forth afuneral dirge, and behind the band, upon men's shoulders, came elevencoffins, in which were those dock victims who had died in the last fewdays. This section had its banner too, and it was marked, "Our Dead. "

But at one point, late in the afternoon, some marcher just ahead of mesuddenly started to laugh. At first I thought he was simply in fun. Buthe kept on. Those near him then caught the look on his face and they allbegan to laugh with him. Each moment louder, uglier, it swept up theAvenue. And as it swelled in volume, like the menace of some furiousbeast, the uncontrollable passion I heard filled me again with a sharpforeboding of violence in the crisis ahead. 

"Why are you here?" I asked myself. "You can't join in a laugh likethat--you're no real member of this crowd--their world is not where youbelong!"

But from somewhere deep inside me a voice rose up in answer:

"If the crowd is growing blind--is this the time to leave it? Wait. "

CHAPTER XVI

Five more vessels sailed that day. And in the evening Eleanore said:

"The women who came to our station to-day kept asking, 'Why can't theyclose up the saloons? They're just the places for trouble to start. '"

"We'll try, " I said, and that same night Marsh sent word through afriend to the mayor asking him to close all barrooms on the waterfrontduring the strike. The mayor sent back a refusal. He said he had nopower. 

Late that night I went down the line and found each barroom packed withmen who were talking of those ships that had sailed. And they talked of"scabs. " Speakers I had not heard before were now shouting and poundingthe bar with their fists. The papers the next morning ran lurid accountsof these saloons and the open threats of violence there. They censuredthe mayor for his weakness and called for the militia. Why wait for mobsand bloodshed?

To that challenge I heard the reply of the crowd, on the Farm thatafternoon, in their applause of the fiery speech of a swarthy littleSpaniard. Francesco Vasca was his name. 

"They are sending hired murderers who will come here to shoot us down!But when they come, " he shouted, "I want you to remember this! A jailcell is no smaller than our holes in the bottoms of their ships, thefood is no worse than the scouse we shall eat if we give in and go backto our jobs! And so we shall not be driven back! When the militia comeagainst us, armed with guns and bayonets, then let us go to meet themarmed----"

He stopped short, and from one end to the other of that motionless massof men there fell a death-like silence. Then he grimly ended his speech:

"Armed with patience, courage and a deep belief in our cause. "

In the sudden storm of cheers and "booh's" I leaned over to Joe at myside:

"Why did you let that man speak?"

The frown tightened on Joe's face. 

"Because he's one of us, " he said. 

Seven more ships had sailed by that night. 

In front of the docksheds, outside the double line of police, the thronghad grown denser day by day, and each time the "scabs" came out therehad been a burst of imprecations, a fierce pressing forward. The policehad repeatedly used their clubs. Now late in the afternoon a redhospital ambulance came clanging down the waterfront. It was greeted bytriumphant shouts. "Some black bastard hurt at last!" There was a quickgathering of police and a lane was formed reaching into the dock. Through this lane drove the ambulance, and as presently it emerged itwas greeted by tumultuous cheers. 

The papers the next morning said that a raging, howling mob had tried toreach the injured man. Cries of "Sabotage!" had been heard. Two men, they said, had been injured and one killed on the docks the day before. Was this Sabotage? Had the strikers fixed the winches with the purposeof killing strike-breakers? Why not? Their leaders had openly preachedit. Not only the Spaniard but Marsh himself was quoted as favoringviolence, and from that special Sabotage Issue of Joe Kramer's paperlong extracts were reprinted. Were not these three leaders responsiblefor the death of that innocent black man? And should leaders such asthese be allowed to go on preaching murder? Put them in jail! Quell thisinsurrection while still there was time! So spoke the press. 

The rumor quickly spread about that Marsh and the Spaniard and JoeKramer were to be arrested that day. All three remained at strikeheadquarters, and a dozen burly strikers kept the throng from pouringin. "Go on home, " I could hear them shouting. But far from going, thethrong increased until it filled the whole street outside. Suddenly weheard their cries rise into a raging din. 

"Well, boys, " said Marsh, "I guess they're here. " He gave a few moresharp directions to his aides and then went out into the hall. A dozenCentral Office police in plain clothes were just coming in at the door. 

"All right, " said Marsh, "we're ready. But unless you men were sent herewith the idea of starting trouble, suppose you leave here now withoutus. Each one of us will meet you at any place and time you say. "

"We can't take your orders, Mr. Marsh. "

"You mean you _were_ sent here for trouble?"

"I mean I have warrants for the arrest of yourself, Joseph Kramer andFrancesco Vasca on a charge of incitement to murder. "

And in less than a minute I saw Marsh, the Spaniard and Joe Kramer eachhandcuffed to two men, one on either side. As they left the hall I cameclose behind with a score of eager reporters. 

The crowd, to my excited eyes, was like a crouching tiger now, glaringout of countless eyes. Through the solid mass of men that packed thestreet from wall to wall, the police had forced a narrow lane from thepatrol wagon to the door. On either side of this lane I saw a line offaces, eyes. Some looked anxious, frightened, and were trying to pressback, but at the sight of their leaders now with a roar the multitudeswept in. In a moment the lane was gone, and some fifty police hadformed in a circle around the prisoners. Quickly their clubs rose andfell, and men dropped all around them. But furious hundreds kept rushingin from every side, women and children caught in the tide were swepthelplessly forward, came under the clubs and went down with the rest, and still the mass poured over them. Now at last the circle of bluecoatswas broken, policemen alone and in small clusters were rushed andwhirled this way and that. Outnumbered twenty to one, they began to godown in the scrimmage. 

Then I heard a quick shout:

"Use your guns!"

After that, two pistol shots. Then more in a sharp, steady crackle. Themass began breaking, out on the edges I could see men starting to run. But down the street came a troop of mounted police on the gallop, andstraight through the multitude they rode. I saw the three prisonersseized and surrounded and thrown into the wagon. I saw it go rapidlyaway. The police were now making wholesale arrests. That deep stridentroar of the crowd had died down and broken into panting voices, everywhere were struggling forms. 

Just before me the throng opened and I saw a woman at my feet. Her facewas bleeding from a club. As I stooped to lift her, I felt a big handgrip my arm and then a heavy, crushing weight press down upon my head. Ifelt myself sink down and down into an empty darkness. 

When I came to, I was being half pushed and half thrown by police upinto one of their wagons. I remember a blurred glimpse of more fightingforms around me. Then a gong clanged and our wagon was off. And in a fewmoments we had emerged out of all this turbulence into the quietcommonplace streets of a city of every-day business life. 

In the wagon a voice began singing. I looked up and saw our Italianmusician, the leader of those gay excursions on _The Internationale_. Now he was singing the song of that name. And as all came in on thechorus, I caught a glimpse of his face. One cheek was bleeding profuselyand with one hand he was keeping the blood from trickling down. Withthe other hand he was beating time. And his black eyes were blazing. 

Soon after, we came to Jefferson Market and stopped at the entrance ofthe jail. As we were hustled out of the wagon, and in the stronger lightour cuts and swelling bruises came suddenly in view, two young girlsamong us began to laugh hysterically. In a moment we were inside thejail and shoved into a striker group that had come in wagons ahead ofours. A grim old sergeant at the desk was taking down names andaddresses and sending the prisoners to their cells. 

I found my cell a cool relief after all that fever of cries. Withsurprise I noticed it was clean. I had thought all cells were filthyholes. Still in a daze, I sat down on my cot and felt the big bruise onmy head. 

"Where am I? What has happened? What has all this to do with me? What isit going to mean in my life?"

I heard a nasal voice from somewhere say:

"I know this pen. They're putting the girls with the prostitutes. "

I heard clanging gongs outside and soon the banging of steel doors asmore prisoners were put into cells. And little by little, through itall, I made out a low, eager murmur. 

"Say, " inquired a drunken old voice. "Who are all you damn fools? Whatis this party, anyhow?"

"It is a revolution!" a sharp little voice replied. And at that, fromall sides other voices broke out. Then from his cell our musical friendagain started up the singing, his strained tenor voice rising high overall. The song rose in volume, grew more intense. 

"Heigh! Quit that noise!" a policeman shouted. 

"Aw, let 'em alone, " said another. "They'll soon work it off. "

But we seemed to be only working it up. Up and up, song followed song, and then short impassioned speeches came out of cells, and there wasapplause. A voice asked each one of us to name his nationality, and wefound we were Americans, Irish, Scotch and Germans, Italians andNorwegians, and three of us were Lascars and one of us was a Coolie. Then there were cheers for the working class all over the world, andafter that a call for more singing. And now, as one of the songs diedaway, we heard from the woman's part of the jail the young girls singingin reply. 

And slowly as I listened to those songs that rose and swelled and beatagainst those walls of steel, I felt once more the presence of thatgreat spirit of the crowd. 

"That spirit will go on, " I thought. "No jail can stop the thing itfeels!"

And at last with a deep, warm certainty I felt myself where I belonged. 

CHAPTER XVII

Early in the evening I was taken out to the visitor's room, and there Ifound Eleanore's father. When he saw me, Dillon smiled. 

"Do you know where you are?" he asked. "You're not in the Bastille--oreven Libby Prison. You're in the Jefferson Market Jail. "

"It hasn't felt that way, " I said. 

"Probably not. But it is that way, and there's Eleanore to be thoughtof. "

"Eleanore will understand. "

I saw his features tighten. I noticed now that his face was drawn, asthough he, too, had been through a good deal. 

"Yes, " he said, "she understands. But it's a bit tough on her, isn't it?Jail is not quite in her line. "

I felt my throat contracting:

"I know all that. I'm sorry enough--on her account----"

"Then let's get out of this, " he said. "I've brought you bail. No usestaying in here all night. "

"None at all, " I agreed. "I want to get back to the waterfront. We'regoing to issue an answer to this. They'll need me for the writing. "

Dillon watched me a moment. 

"You won't be allowed to do that, " he said. "They're under martial lawdown there. "

I looked up at him quickly:

"The troops are here?"

"Yes, " he replied, and there was a pause. 

"These arrests, this riot, " I said a little huskily. "Weren't they allframed up ahead? They needed the riot to get in the troops. "

"The troops are here. "

"Rather damnable. Do you think the people on the docks will just sitback and take it all?"

"They'll have to, " he said gently. "The world's work has been clogged upa little. It's to go on again now. "

On the street outside he took my hand:

"My boy, when this is over we'll get together, you and I. "

"All right--when it's over, " I said. 

 * * * * *

The Farm that night again changed to my eyes. It was now an orderlyvillage of tents, two regiments of militia were here, and their sentriesreached for a mile to the north watching the big companies' docks. 

I walked up along the line and had talks with some of the sentries. Iremember one in particular, a thin, nervous little man, a shoe-clerk ina department store. Every work-day for six years he had fitted shoes onladies' feet; he had been doing it all that morning. And now here he wasdown on the waterfront with only the stars above him and great shadowyspaces all around, out of which at any moment he expected rushes bystrikers. These strikers to him were not human, they were "foreigners, "for the moment gone mad, to be treated very much as mad dogs. And herehe was all by himself, his nerves on edge, with a gun in his hands. Theabsurdity of that gun in his hands! And the serious danger. 

I went into many tenements, into homes I had come to know in the strike. And they, too, were different now. Their principal leaders taken awayand their headquarters closed by the police, the disorganization wascomplete. That spirit they had relied upon, that strange new spirit ofthe mass which they had created by coming together, was now dead--andeach one felt the weakness of being alone, the weakness of his separateself. Blindly they fought against their despair. I found them packingtenement rooms, gathering instinctively in search of their great friend, the crowd. 

But from such gatherings as these, the weaker, the more timid and thewiser kept away. Rash spirits led these meetings, and here was the samehot passion that I had felt back in the jail. These people did not wantto think, the time for thinking had gone by. They wanted to act, to dosomething quick. Their minds were fiercely set on the "scabs, " thepolice and the militia. 

Their strike was not yet lost. Their friends and sympathizers wereworking hard that very night to get their leaders out on bail. InWashington a House committee was striving still to compel arbitration. Everywhere the more moderate spirits were drawing together, trying towork out something safe. 

But these people did not know this. They were in their tenements, theywere scattered far apart. They only knew how they had been clubbed, thatthree had been killed and many more wounded, and that now the troopswere here. And the more fiery ones among them were feeling only onething now, that when you are hit you must hit back, you must show you'renot scared, you must show you're a man. 

And so on the next morning, no women and no children but huge, silentthrongs of men drifted out of the tenements down to the docks and movedslowly along the sentry lines. 

The chance to show they were not afraid came late in the afternoon. Theclear, sweet call of a bugle came floating gaily on the air, then thelong, hard roll of drums, and from their camp on the Farm the troopscame on the double-quick up along the waterfront. Now thousands ofstrikers were running that way. From the foot of a city street acrossthe wide open space to a pier the militia formed in two double lines, each line facing outward. Then down that street came mounted police andbehind them a score of trucks loaded with freight. 

At first I had hopes that the mass would not move. But out of thesilence came angry shouts and those behind pushed forward. Those infront were pressed close up to the sharp lines of bayonets, were proddedsavagely by the troops. Militia youngsters but half trained, in two thinlines opposing what appeared to them a furious sea of faces, fists andangry cries--no wonder they were nervous. Bricks came flying from allsides and even heavy paving-stones, and then a few pistol shots out ofthe mass. I saw a militia man drop on one knee and slowly topple over. Isaw an excited young officer shout at his men and wave his sword. I sawlong rows of guns make quick rhythmic movements, then level straightout, and there were two long flashes of fire. 

Disordered throngs were running now. Only a few men here and thereturned to fire their pistols or to shout back frenzied, quivering oaths. Behind them a few soldiers were still shooting without orders. Near thesand-pile on which I stood I saw a young militia man enough like thatlittle shoe-clerk to have been his brother. His face was white and hiseyes wild, he was panting, pumping his lever and blindly firing shotafter shot. 

"God damn 'em, slaughter 'em, slaughter 'em!"

An officer knocked up his gun. 

 * * * * *

That night the waterfront was still. Only the long, slow moving line ofthe figures of sentries was to be seen. The troops were back in theircamp on the Farm. Bivouac fires were burning down there, but up here wasonly a dark, empty space. 

Here scattered about on the pavement, after the firing had ceased, I hadseen the dark inert bodies of men. Most of them had begun to move, untilfully half were crawling about. They had been picked up and counted. Thirty-nine wounded, fourteen dead. These, too, had all been taken away. 

From the high steel docksheds there came a deep, harsh murmur made up offaint whistles, the rattle of winches, the shouts of the foremen, theheavy jar and crash of crates. A tug puffed smoothly into a slip withthree barges in her wake. I walked slowly out that way. The tugmen andthe bargemen talked in quiet voices as they made fast their craft to thepier. Below them the water was lapping and slapping. 

"The world's work has been clogged up a little. It's to go on againnow. "

 * * * * *

The next day three heavy battleships steamed sluggishly through theNarrows and came to anchor in the bay. When interviewed by reporters, their commanders were vastly amused. No, they said, the United StatesNavy was not governed as to its movements by strikes. They simplyhappened to be here through orders issued weeks ago. But their comingwas featured in headlines. 

I saw something else in the papers that night, a force greater than allbattleships. As a week before I had felt a whole country in revolt, Ifelt now a country of law and order, a whole nation of angry tradesmenimpatiently demanding an end to all this "foreign anarchy. "

"We want no more of your strikes, " it said. "None of your new crowdspirit, none of your wild talk and dreams! We want no change in thiscountry of ours!"

The authorities obeyed this will. Bail was denied to Marsh, Vasca andJoe, and for them a speedy trial was urged. The press now held themresponsible not only for that first negro's death, but for all thedeaths since their arrest. Let them pay the full penalty! Let them bemade an example of! Let this business of anarchy be dealt with andsettled once and for all!

The work of crushing the strike went on. More troops were brought to theharbor. On the docks there were not only negroes now, thousands ofimmigrant laborers were brought from Ellis Island and put to work atdouble pay, and on every incoming vessel the stokers were all kept onboard. Among the strikers there was a break that swiftly spread andbecame a stampede. And in the following week the work of the harbor wenton as before, with its regular commonplace weekly toll of a hundredkilled and injured. Peace had come again at last. 

 * * * * *

On Saturday morning of that week I stood on the deck of a ferryboatpacked with little commuters who waved and cheered a huge ocean linerbound for Europe. Lying deep in the water, her hold laden heavy with theproducts of this teeming land, her decks thronged with travelers withmoney in their pockets, her band playing, her flags streaming out, andover all on the captain's bridge the officers up there in command--shewas a mighty symbol of order and prosperity and of that Efficiency whichto me had been a religion for so many years. We all followed the greatship with our eyes as, gathering headway, she steamed out past theStatue of Liberty toward the battleships beyond. 

"Well, " said an amused little man close by me, "I guess that'll be aboutall from the strikers. "

"Oh my smiling little citizen--you've only seen the beginning, " Ithought. 

What were the strikers thinking now, and what would they be thinkingsoon? They had wanted easier lives, they had wanted to feel themselvespowers here. Caught up in the tide of democracy now sweeping all aroundthe earth, they had wanted to feel themselves running themselves in allthis work they were doing. So they had come out on strike and become acrowd, and in the crowd they had suddenly found such strength as theynever dreamed could be theirs. And they would not easily forget. Theharbor was already seeing to that, for already its work had gone on witha rush, and all its heavy labor was weighing down upon them--"like amillion tons of brick on their chests. " I remembered what Joe Kramer hadsaid: "It's got so they can't even breathe without thinking. "

Was the defeat of this one strike the end?

The grim battleships answered, "Yes, it is the end. "

But the restless harbor answered, "No. "

What change was coming in my life? I did not know. Of one thing only Iwas sure. The last of my gods, Efficiency, whose feet had stood firm onmechanical laws and in whose head were all the brains of all the big menat the top, had now come tottering crashing down. And in its place ahuge new god, whose feet stood deep in poverty and in whose head wereall the dreams of all the toilers of the earth, had called to me withone deep voice, with one tremendous burning passion for the freedom ofmankind. 

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

Once I saw the harbor in a February storm. And in the wind and skurryingsnow I saw it all together like one whirling thing alive. But the nextmorning the storm had died away, and a wind from the south had broughtbanks of fog that moved sluggishly low down on the water dividing thewhole region into many separate parts. And from above, a dazzling sunshone down upon three objects near me, a ferryboat, a puffing tug, and atramp which lay at anchor, shone so brightly on these three they seemedalone, with nothing but mist all about them. 

So it was now for a time with me. The strike, which had so suddenlydrawn me into its whirling crowd-life, now as suddenly dropped away. Andpersonal troubles piled one on the other. In place of that mass ofthousands, I saw only a few people I loved, and I saw them so intenselythat for a time we were quite alone, with nothing but mist all aroundus. 

 * * * * *

Sue sent for me one morning and I went over to our house. I was startledby the change in her face. It looked not only tired, it looked sodisillusioned, done, so through with all the absorbing ideas and warmenthusiasms that had given it abundant life. 

"I'm not going to marry Joe Kramer, " she said. "And I want you to tellhim so. "

I stared at her blankly. 

"I'm sorry, " I said. 

"Are you?" There was just a worn shadow of her old smile. 

"I don't know why I said that, " I replied. "My head's rather dull thismorning. All right, Sis, I'll tell him. " Still I watched her pityingly. Poor old Sue. What a crash in her life. 

"I'd like you to tell him the whole truth, " my sister went on sharply, "just why I've decided as I have. Don't say it's because of father. WhenI wanted Joe, Dad didn't count, he was nothing to me but a back number. But I _don't_ want him now--Joe, I mean--I don't love him any more. If Iwent to him to-day in his cell and said I'd stick by him no matter whathappened because he was the man I loved--I'd be lying--that wouldn't beme. The real me is a much smaller person than that. I don't love Joebecause I've been scared--because he's in a common jail--waiting to betried for murder. " Her face contracted slightly. "I suppose it's the wayI've been brought up. "

"But Sue----"

"Don't stop me, Billy, let me talk!" And she talked on intensely, soabsorbed in this fierce impulsive confession that she seemed to forget Iwas there. "I've been thinking what's to become of me. I've beenthinking about all the things I've been in, and none seem real anylonger--I wanted a thrill and I got it--that's all. Then I met Joe and Igot it again, I got a thrill out of all his life and the big things itwas made of. I got a _great_ thrill out of the strike. Don't youremember how I talked three weeks ago when you were here? Dad was theOld and I was the New. I saw everything beginning. I read Walt Whitman's'Open Road' and I felt like Joe's 'camarado. ' Well, and I kept on likethat. And like a little idiot I couldn't keep it to myself, I went andtold some of my friends. That's what's really the hardest now, whathurts the most--I told my friends. I posed as a young Joan of Arc. Iwas going to marry, give up everything, chuck myself into this fight forthe people, into revolution! Thrills, I tell you, thrills and thrills!

"But then Joe got arrested. I knew he was in a cell in the Tombs, inMurderers' Row. And that drove all the thrills away. That was real. Dadmade it worse. He talked about the coming trial, Sing Sing and the deathhouse there. One morning he tried to read to me an account of anexecution. I ran away, but I came back and read it myself, I read allthe hideous details right up to the iron chair. And just because therewas a chance of Joe's being like that, all at once I stopped loving him. Not just because I was frightened, it wasn't so simple as a scare. Itwas something inside of me shuddering, and saying 'how revolting!' Itried to shake it out of me, I tried to keep on loving him! But Icouldn't shake it out of me! Joe had become--revolting, too! It'sbecause of the way I've been brought up and because of the way I'vealways lived! I can't stand what's real--if it's ugly! That's me!"

She broke off and looked down. I came and sat beside her, and took hercold, quivering hands in mine:

"I guess I _am_ sorry, Sue old girl----"

"Don't be, " she retorted. "I'm too sorry for myself as it is! That'sanother part of me!" Again she broke off with a hard little laugh. "Let's forget me for a minute. What has this sweet strike done to_you_?"

"I'm not sure yet, " I answered. "Where is Dad?"

"Up in his room. "

"Tell me about him, " I said. Sue drew an anxious little breath:

"Oh Billy, he has been getting so queer. It has all been such a strainon his mind. Every day he kept reading the news of the strike--and somedays he would stamp and rage about till I was afraid to be with him. Hetalked about that death cell until I thought that I'd go mad. Sometimeswhen we were talking I thought that we had both gone mad. "

I went upstairs and found him in a chair by the window. With unnatural, clumsy motions he rose and came to meet me. 

"I'm all right, my boy. " His voice had a mumbling quality and I noticedthe strangeness in his eyes. "I'm all right. I'm glad to see you. " Thenhis face clouded and hardened a little, and he tried to speak to mesternly:

"I'm glad you're clean out of that strike and its notions--glad you'vecome to your senses, " he said. "You're lucky in having such a wife. She's been over here often lately--and she's worth a dozen like you andSue. Have you seen Sue?"

"Yes. "

"Well, _she's_ all right. "

I said nothing to this, and he shot a sidelong look at me:

"I had quite a time, my boy--I had to keep right at her. " Another quicklook. "I suppose she's told you how I went at her. "

"Never mind, Dad, it's over now. "

"I had to make her feel the noose, I mean the chair, " he went on inthose thick, mumbling tones, "and that she'd have to choose between thatand a decent Christian home--like the home her mother had. She was awonderful woman, your mother, " he wandered off abruptly. "If she'd onlyunderstood me--seen what it was I was trying to do--for Americanshipping--Yankee sails!" He sank down in his chair exhausted, and Inoticed he was breathing hard. "I'm all right, my boy, I'm quite allright----"

With a sudden rush of pity and of love and deep alarm, I bent gentlyover him:

"Of course you are--why Dad, old boy--just take it easy--quiet, youknow--we're going to pull right out of this----"

The tears welled suddenly up in his eyes:

"I'm lonely, boy--I'm glad you're here!"

Presently I went down to Sue:

"When is the doctor coming next?"

"Not till this afternoon, " she said. 

"I'll be home to-night for supper. Phone me what he says. "

"All right--where are you going now? To Joe?"

"Yes, Sis, " I said. 

She turned and went quickly out of the room. 

 * * * * *

In the Tombs, when Joe was brought out to me, I saw that he, too, hadbeen through a deep change. He had been quiet enough all through thestrike, except for that one big speech of his--but he had been _tensely_quiet. Now the tension appeared to be gone. He seemed wrapped up inthoughts of his own. 

"Have you seen Sue?" he asked me at once. 

"Yes Joe, I've just been with her. "

"What did she say?"

I began to tell him. 

"I knew it, " he interrupted me. "I made up my mind to this the firstnight I spent here in my cell. It couldn't have happened, it wouldn'thave worked. Tell her I understand all about it, tell her that I'm sureshe's right. Tell her--it's funny but it's true--tell her this infernalpen has worked the same way on me as on her. I mean it has made me notwant her now. I feel sorry for her and that's all--deeply and infernallysorry. I was a fool to have let her into it. My only excuse for being soblind was that damned fever that left me so weak. At any other time Iwould have seen what a farce it was. I wasn't booked for a life likethat. It doesn't fit in with this job of mine. " He smiled a littlebitterly. "I used to say, " he continued, "that if I had time I'd like todo something yellow enough so that I'd be cut off for life from anychance of church bells. And I guess I've done it this time--no dangerof getting respectable now. "

"How do you look at this, Joe?" I asked him. "What do you think they'lldo to you?"

"I don't know. " Again he smiled slightly and wearily. "And I can't say I_care_ a damn. I feel like those fellows over in Russia, therevolutionist chaps I met, who didn't know if they'd croak in a monthand didn't care one way or the other. But as a matter of fact, " headded, "I think this time it's mainly bluff. They wanted to get us awayfrom the crowd and keep us away while they broke the strike. Now thatit's over you'll probably find they'll let us all off with lightsentences. Of course the murder charge can't hold. .. . By the way, " headded, smiling, "I hear they got you, too. "

"Yes, " I answered, smiling back. "The Judge fined me ten dollars and letme go. He said he hoped this would be a lesson. "

Joe looked at me curiously:

"How much of a lesson, Kid, do you think this strike has been to you?"

"Quite a big one, Joe, " I said. 

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I haven't decided. "

"How is Eleanore taking it all?"

"She's not saying much and neither am I. We're both doing some thinkingbefore we talk. "

"You're a quiet pair, " J. K. Remarked. "I shouldn't wonder if you'd nosealong quite a distance before you get through--I mean in our direction. "

"That's what we're thinking about, " I replied. Again he turned to mecuriously:

"You two can think together--without talking--can't you?"

"Yes--sometimes we can. "

"I never got that far with Sue. " All at once he came closer, his wholemanner changed: "Say, Bill--tell her all I've said--will you? I'msorry! Honest Injun! Make her feel how damnably sorry I am that I everlet her in for this!"

When I left him I went off for a walk, for I wanted to be alone awhile. I wondered just how sure Joe felt about his fast approaching trial. Itseemed to me that he had a good chance of going where Sue had picturedhim. 

CHAPTER II

That evening I learned that my father was worse, and I spent the nextday by his bedside. He had had a stroke in the morning and was notexpected to live through the night. 

I found him mumbling fast to himself and making slight, restless effortsto move. At last he grew quiet, and presently his half-open gnarledright hand came groping out over the covers. I took it in mine, and atonce I felt it close on mine with a quick, convulsive strength. His handwas moist, his eyes saw nothing. I sat there thus for a long time. Thensuddenly, "Good boy, " he muttered thickly. "Good boy--good--always good to yourmother!" He kept repeating this over and over, with pauses between, thenagain with an effort, fiercely, as though from a distance his mind wereset on getting this message over to me, over from an age that was dyinginto an age that was coming to life, a last good-by to hold me back. 

Soon he was only mumbling figures, names of ships and distant ports, freight consignments. Now and then his finger would go to his lips, ashe turned phantom pages in feverish haste. Again, in gasping whispers, he would break out into arguments for the protection of Yankee sails. 

"Protection!" he would whisper. "Damn fools not to see it!Discriminating tariffs! Subsidies! A Navy!. .. Don't forget the Navy!Remember War of 1812!. .. Nothing without fighting!"

"Nothing without fighting. " He had been learning this all his life--andafter he had said it now, he stopped speaking and grew still. Little bylittle his movements grew weaker. Finally he lay like a log, and thedoctor said he would be so until dead. 

I went up to my old bedroom and sat down by the open window. It was abeautiful night. From the garden below, where long ago I had felt suchshivers over the ocean and heathen lands, a graceful poplar rose. Behindit from the river the huge, dim funnel of a steamer rose over the roofof the warehouse. Overhead to the right swept the Great Bridge of mychildhood. But behind it were other bridges now, and off across theriver the buildings of Manhattan loomed in loftier masses to their apexin the tower of lights. How changed it all was since I was a boy. Andyet how like. On the harbor still the hurrying lights, yellow, blue andgreen and red. The same deep, restless hum of labor. And from thewaterfront below the same puffs and coughs of engines, the same sharptoots and treble pantings, the same raucous whine of wheels. 

There came a rough salt breeze from the sea, and it made me think ofbillowy sails and the days of my father's boundless youth, and of theharbor of long ago that had so gripped and molded him--as I felt minenow molding me. And for what? I asked. To what were we bothadventuring--out of these little harbors of ours?

Toward dawn a tramp came down the river. Dimly as she passed below Icould see how old she was, how worn and battered by the waves. Adesolate and lonely craft, the smoke draggled out of her funnel. Iwatched her steam into the Upper Bay and pass around Governor's Island. I watched till in the first raw light of day I could see only her smokethrough the Narrows. Then even this became but a blur, which crept awayin that strange dawn light out into the wide ocean. 

A few hours later my father died. 

One by one, from different parts of the port, the queerest old men cameinto our house on the day of my father's funeral--men who stillbelieved in American ships, still thrilled to the dream of the Stars andStripes wherever there is an ocean breeze; men who still believed inships that had sails and moved along with the force of the winds; whostill believed that cabin boys could rise by the sheer force of theirwills to be powers in the ocean world; men who had for the common crowdonly the iron discipline, the old brute tyranny of the sea. Thesestrange old men stood with their white heads bowed, a little group, looking down into my father's grave. 

"He was a magnificent fighter, " I heard one of them say as we left. "Hewrecked his own business for what he believed in. How many of us wouldgo that far?"

 * * * * *

From the grave Sue came to our apartment. Eleanore had packed her trunk. 

"Sue must keep out of that dreary old house, " she told me. "Luckily shehas a friend out of town whom she's going to visit. When she comes backwe must have the house closed, and I hope she'll live with us for awhile. "

We talked of this that evening, for Sue seemed to want to talk. Westayed up until late and planned and planned. Many different kinds ofwork for Sue were taken up and discussed by us all. She surprised me bythe brave effort she made. 

"I've got to want something--that's sure, " she said. "I can't just yet. I've wanted so many things so hard, one after the other for nearly eightyears, that now I feel as though I'd used up all the wanting that I'vegot. But of course I haven't. If I have I'm a back number--and I'd agreat deal rather be dead. So don't you people worry. Depend upon it, inless than a year I'll be all wrapped up in something new. I'll betremendously enthused, " she ended, smiling wearily. 

She agreed with me that the house be sold, and after she had left us Imade every effort to sell it at once. I found it was heavily mortgagednow, but when at last I made a sale there was enough to clear off alldebts and leave about two thousand dollars for Sue. She would have atleast something to start on. 

As we set about to dismantle the house, various things thickly coveredwith dust came out of closets, drawers and shelves. And these objectsbrought near again to me my mother's life and that hunger of hers forthe things that were "fine, " that hospitable door which had waited forfriends from the handsome old homes all around us. These homes all alongthe street had now lost their quiet dignity. Some were empty and markedfor sale, others that had already been sold were cheerless boardinghouses. The most handsome home of all, with its ample yard where I usedto play, was gone, and in its place rose an apartment building whichmade the old houses all seem dwarfs. 

Her world and his were both slipping away. Her life and his, her creedand his, were little now but memories--memories which in Sue and in memust take their chance with the warm, new feelings, the cravings, hopes, loves, doubts and dreams of this absorbing world of our own. For theharbor was still molding lives. 

How anxious Eleanore seemed to be through, I thought a littlebitterly. 

CHAPTER III

But Eleanore had good reason. When at last the house had been closed, back at home one evening she told me what she had known for weeks buthad kept to herself until I should be free from other things. We were tohave another child. 

The news was a shock, it frightened me. "Where's the money to comefrom?" flashed into my mind. In an instant it had passed and I washolding her tight in my arms. But she must have caught that look in myface, for I could feel her trembling. 

"The same funny old world, my dearest one, " she whispered, "with itssame old trick of starting out. But oh my dear, in spite of it all--orbecause of it all--how good it is to be alive! More than ever--a hundredtimes!"

"You darling girl, " I whispered back, "you're the bravest one of all!"

 * * * * *

Her father came to us the next night, and after Eleanore went to bed heand I talked long together. He looked worn and tired, but the same quietaffection was in his eyes. 

"Let's see where we are, " he said, "and what we've got to go on. Tobegin with, thank God, you and I are still friends. Then there'sEleanore and your small son and the smaller one that's coming. We'rejust starting in on a long, hot summer. She must of course be got out oftown. How much have you in the bank?"

"Thirty-seven dollars, " I said. 

He looked thoughtfully at his cigar. 

"You've never yet taken money from me, " he continued, after a moment. "Still, you'd do it if you had to--because this is _our_ affair. Butunluckily, just at present, I'm nearly as high and dry as yourself. Themen who have backed my harbor work have lost so heavily in the strikethat they feel now they must recoup. I've already proposed to them aplan which they have as good as accepted. They'll provide enough moneyto pay the rent of a smaller office. I can borrow enough to pay half mymen. The rest I'll have to let go for a time. "

"And _your_ salary?" I ventured. 

"Is left out, " he answered. "I mean it is if I stay here. I want to stayhere, I want to put through this job if I can, you see it has taken sixyears of my life. And besides, " he added wistfully, "in a very few weeksthey'll finish the work at Panama--and the ships of the world will beginto crowd into a harbor that isn't ready here--we haven't even completedour plans. It's not a good time to stop our work. But of course if youand Eleanore get into a hole that is serious--as I said before andyou'll agree, you'd have to let me help you--even if to do it I shouldhave to give up my work for a while and take up something that willpay. "

"No sir!"

"Yes sir, " he replied. "Unless you can earn enough money yourself. "

We looked at each other a moment. 

"You know how to bring pressure, don't you?" I said. 

"Yes, I'm bringing pressure. I want to see you go on as before. "

"That won't be easy, " I remarked. 

"Shall we talk it over a little?"

"Yes. "

"All right, " he said. "Since that talk we had together the dayEleanore's first child was born, what a splendid start you made in yourwriting. You were not only earning big pay, you were doing fine work, work that was leading somewhere. I could see you learning to use yourtools, getting a broad, sane view of life--and of yourself--trainingyourself and building yourself. You were right on the threshold of bigresults. But then your friend Kramer came along. He had not builthimself, he had chucked himself over, neglected himself, his healthincluded. So he took typhoid and came to your home. His being there wasa drain on your pocket and a heavy strain on your nerves. He got youunsettled. Then came the strike. And what has it done? It has taken yourtime, health, money. It has left two good workmen stranded--you and me. And I don't see that it's done the crowd any good. What has the strikegiven you in return for all it has taken away?"

"A deeper view of life, " I said. "I saw something in that strike so muchbigger than Marsh or Joe or that crude organization of theirs--somethingdeep down in the people themselves that rises up out of each one of themthe minute they get together. And I believe that power has suchpossibilities that when it comes into full life not all the police andbattleships and armies on earth can stop it. "

The look in Dillon's eyes was more anxious than impatient. 

"Billy, " he said, "I've lived a good deal closer than you have to thebig jobs of this world. And I know those jobs are to get still bigger, even more complex. They're to require even bigger men. " I smiled a bitimpatiently. 

"Still the one man in a million, " I said. 

"Yes, " said Dillon, "his day isn't over, it has only just begun. He mayhave his bad points--I'll admit he has--but compared to all the littlemen his vision is wide and it goes deep. And if they'll only leave himalone and give him a chance, he'll take me and the other engineers, andthe chemists and doctors and lawyers, and he'll make a world--he's doingit now--where ignorance and poverty will in time be wiped completelyout. "

"They're not going to leave him alone, " I said. "I'm sure of that now. Whether he grafts or whether he's honest won't make any difference. Thecrowd is going to pull him down. Because it's not democracy. The troublewith all your big men at the top is that they're trying to do for thecrowd what the crowd wants to do for itself. And it may not do it halfso well--but all the time it will be learning--gathering closer everyyear--and getting a spirit compared to which your whole clean clearefficiency world is only cold and empty!"

He must have caught the look in my eyes. 

"You're thinking that I'm getting old, " he said softly. "I and all themen like me who have been building up this country. You're thinking thatwe're all following on after your father into the past. " As I lookedback I felt suddenly humble. Dillon's voice grew appealing and kind. "But you belong with us, Billy, " he said. "It was under us you won yourstart. And what I want now, " he added, "is not only for Eleanore's sake, but your own. I want you to try to write again about all the work we aredoing and see what it will do for you. Why not give it another chance?You're not afraid of it, are you?"

"No, " I said, "I'm not afraid--and I'll give it another chance if youlike--I don't want to be narrow about it, God knows. But before I tackleanything else I'll finish my story of the strike. "

"All right, " he agreed. "That's all I ask. Now suppose you take Eleanoreup to the mountains and write your strike article up there. Let me loanyou a little just at the start. "

"How much money have _you_ in the bank?"

"Enough to send Eleanore where she belongs. "

"Eleanore belongs right here, " said a voice from the other room, andpresently Eleanore appeared. She surveyed us both with a scorn in hereyes that made us quake a little. "I never heard, " she went on calmly, "of anything quite so idiotic. Go home, Dad, and go to bed, and pleasedrop this insane idea that I'm afraid of July in New York, or of Augustor September. Do you know what you're going to do to-morrow, both of youpoor foolish boys? You're going sensibly to work and worry about nothingat all. And to-morrow night we're all three of us going to forget how itfeels to work or think, and get on an open trolley and go down and hearHarry Lauder. Thank Heaven he happens to be in town. To hear you talkyou'd think the whole American people had forgotten how to laugh. 

"Now Billy, " she ended smoothly, "go to the icebox and get two bottlesof nice cool beer--and make me a tall glass of lemonade. And don't usetoo much sugar. "

CHAPTER IV

The next day and the next evening Eleanore's program was carried out. But after that night the laughing stopped. For Joe Kramer was coming totrial. 

I had not seen Joe for over two weeks, and I had taken his view of hiscase, that there was no serious danger. But now I learned from a goodsource that Joe and both his colleagues were to be brought to trial atonce, while the public feeling was still hot against them. As the timeof the trials drew near every paper in town took up the cry. Let thesemen be settled once and for all, they demanded. Let them not be set freefor other strikes, for wholesale murder and pillage. Let them pay thefull penalty for their crimes!

In the face of this storm, I found myself on Joe's defense committee, the best part of my time each day and evening taken up with raisingmoney, helping to find witnesses and doing the press work for paradesand big mass meetings of labor. 

Through this work, in odd hours, I finished my story of the strike. Itall came back to me vividly now and I tried to tell what I had seen. Itook it to my editor. 

"Print that?" he said when he'd read it. "You're mad. "

"It's the truth, " I remarked. 

"As you see it, " he said. "And you've seen it only from one side. Ifthis story had been written and signed by Marsh or your friend Kramer, we might have run it, with a reply from the companies. But I don't wantto see _you_ stand for this--in our magazine or anywhere else--it meanstoo much to you as a writer. Look out, my boy, " he added, with areturn to the old brusque kindliness which he had always shown me in theyears I had worked under him. "We think a lot of you in this office. ForGod's sake don't lose your head. Don't be one more good reporterspoiled. "

I took my story of the strike to every editor I knew, and it wasrejected by each in turn. They thought it all on the side of the crowd, an open plea for revolution. Then I took it to Joe in the Tombs. 

"Will you sign this, Joe?" I asked, when he had read it. 

"No, " he replied. "It's too damn mild. You've given too much to theother side. All these bouquets to efficiency and all this about the weakpoints of the crowd. The average stoker reading this would think thatthe revolution won't come till we are all white-haired. "

"I don't believe it will, " I said. 

"I know you don't. That's why you're no good to us, " he said. "We wantour stuff written by men who are sure that a big revolution is justahead, men who are certain that a strike, to take in half the civilizedworld, is coming in the next ten years. "

"I don't believe that. "

"I know. You can't. You're still too soaked in the point of view of yourefficiency father-in-law. "

"So you don't feel you can sign this?"

"No. "

That day I sent my story to a small magazine in New England, which fromthe time of the Civil War had retained its traditions of breadth ofview. Within a week the editor wrote that he would be glad to publishit. "Our modest honorarium will follow shortly, " he said at the end. Themodest honorarium did. Meanwhile I had sent him a sketch of Nora Ganeywhich I had written just after the strike. I received a letter equallykind, and another honorarium. I began to see a future of modesthonoraria. 

In the meantime, to meet our expenses at home, I had borrowed money andgiven my note. And the note would soon fall due. Those were far frompleasant days. On the one side Joe in his cell waiting to be tried forhis life; on the other, Eleanore at home waiting for a new life to beborn. By a lucky chance for me, Joe's trial was again postponed, so Icould return to my own affairs. I had to have some money quick. I wentback to my magazine editor and asked for a job in his office. 

"I'm ready now to be sane, " I said. 

"Glad to hear it, " he replied. "I'll give you a steady routine job whereyou can grind till you get yourself right. "

"Till I get back where I was, you mean?"

"Yes, if you can, " he answered. 

I went for a walk that afternoon to think over the proposition he'dmade. 

"I have seen three harbors, " I said to myself. "My father's harbor whichis now dead, Dillon's harbor of big companies which is very much alive, and Joe Kramer's harbor which is struggling to be born. It's aninteresting age to live in. I should like to write the truth as I see itabout each kind of harbor. But I need the money--my wife is going tohave a child. So I'll take that steady position and try to grind part ofthe truth away. "

 * * * * *

"What have you been doing?" Eleanore asked when I came home. "You looklike a ghost. "

"Not at all, " I replied. "I've been getting a job. "

"Tell me about it. "

I told her part. She went and got her sewing, and settled herselfcomfortably for a quiet evening's work. Eleanore loved baby clothes. 

"Now begin again and tell me all, " she ordered. And she persisted untilI did. 

"It won't do, " she said, when I had finished. 

"It will do, " I replied decidedly. "It's the best thing in sight. Itwill see us through till the baby is born. After all, it's only for ayear. "

"It's a mighty important year for you, my love, " said Eleanore. Shethoughtfully held up and surveyed a tiny infant's nightgown. "If you dothis you'll be giving up. It's not writing your best. It's giving upwhat you think is the truth. And that's a bad habit to get into. "

"It's settled now. Please leave it alone. "

"Oh very well, " she said placidly. "Let's talk of what I've been doing. "

"What _you've_ been doing?"

"Precisely. I've taken a little apartment downtown, over by the river. The rent is twenty-eight dollars a month. It's on the top floor and hasplenty of air, and there's a nice roof for hot summer evenings. You'reto carry two wicker chairs up there each night after supper. "

"I'll do nothing of the kind, " I rejoined indignantly. "You're going topack up at once and go to the mountains! And when you come back you'recoming right here!"

"Oh no I'm not, " she answered. 

"Don't be an idiot, Eleanore! Think of moving out of here now! In yourcondition!"

"It's better than moving out of your work. Dad has kept right on withhis, even when they stopped his pay. Well, now they've stopped your pay, that's all, and we've got to do the best we can. We've simply got tolive for a while on modest honorariums. Now don't talk, wait till I getthrough. You've got to work harder than ever before but for much lessmoney. But with less money than before we're going to be happier thanwe've ever been in all our lives. And you can't do a thing to stop it. If you do take that office work and bring a lot of money home, do youknow what I'll do? I'll move to that little flat just the same, and allthe extra money you bring will go to Mrs. Bealey. "

"Who in God's name is Mrs. Bealey?"

"One of my oldest charity cases. She was here this afternoon. Thetrouble with you is, my dear, " my wife continued smoothly, "that you'vebeen so wrapped up in your own little changes you haven't given athought to mine. Well, I've done some changing, too. Every time that Sueor you have taken up a new idea I've taken up a Mrs. Bealey. I did thesame thing in the strike. I went with Nora Ganey into the very poorestof all the tenements down by the docks. I saw the very worst of itall--and I tried to do what I could to help. But I felt like a drop inthe ocean. And that's how I've changed. Things are so wrong in thetenements that big reforms are needed. I don't know what they are andI'm not sure anyone else does. But I'm sure that if any reforms worthwhile are to be made, we've got to see just where we are. And that meansthat quite a number of people--you for instance--have got to tell thetruth exactly as they see it. So I'd rather put our money in that andlet old Mrs. Bealey forget our address. That's another reason formoving. 

"There's nothing noble about it at all, " she said as she threaded herneedle. "I mean to be perfectly comfortable. I saw this coming long ago, and since the strike was over I've spent weeks picking out a nice placewhere we can get the most for our money. About thirty thousand babies, I'm told, are to be born in the city this summer--and their mothersaren't going first to the mountains or even for a walk in the Park. Idon't see why I shouldn't be one. As a matter of fact I won't be one, mybaby won't be born until Fall, and I'll have a clean, comfortable flatwith one maid instead of a dirty tenement with all the cooking andwashing to do. You'll probably find magazines who'll pay enoughhonorariums to make a hundred dollars a month, which is just about threetimes as much as Mrs. Bealey lives on. So that's settled and we movethis week. "

We moved that week. 

CHAPTER V

One night about a month later, when we had ensconced ourselves for theevening out on the roof of our new home, where the summer's night wascooled by a slight breeze from the river, our maid came up and told methere was a strange gentleman below. I went down and brought him up, Iwas deeply pleased and excited. For he was the English novelist whom Imost admired these days. He had come to me during the strike and hadbeen deeply interested in the great crowd spirit I had found. He wasgoing back to England now. 

"I'm curious, " he told me, "to see how much your striker friends havekept of what they got in the strike--what new ideas and points of view. How much are they really changed? That, I should think, is by far themost valuable part of it all. "

"It's just what I've been trying to find out for myself, " I replied. 

"Really? Will you tell me?"

I told him how on docks, on tugs and barges, in barrooms and intenements, I was having talks with various types of men who had beenstrikers, how I was finding some dull and hopeless, others bitter, butmore who simply felt that they had bungled this first attempt and werealready looking forward to more and greater struggles. The socialistsamong them were already hard at work, urging them to carry their strikeon into the political field, vote together in one solid mass and buildup a government all their own. Through this ceaseless ferment I had gonein search of significant characters, incidents, new points of view. Iwas writing brief sketches of it all. 

"How did you feel about all this, " the Englishman asked, "before youwere drawn into the strike?" And turning from me to Eleanore, "And you?"he added. 

Gradually he got the stories of our lives. I told how all my life I hadbeen raising up gods to worship, and how the harbor had flowed silentlyin beneath, undermining each one and bringing it down. 

"It seems to have such a habit of changing, " I ended, "that it won't leta fellow stop. "

"Lucky people, " he answered, smiling, "to have found that out sosoon--to have had all this modern life condensed so cozily into yourharbor before your eyes--and to have discovered, while you are stillyoung, that life is growth and growth is change. I believe the age welive in is changing so much faster than any age before it, that a man ifhe's to be vital at all must give up the idea of any fixed creed--in hisoffice, his church or his home--that if he does not, he will only wearhimself out butting his indignant head against what is stronger andprobably better than he. But if he does, if he holds himself open tochange and knows that change is his very life, then he can get aserenity which is as much better than that of the monk as living isbetter than dying. "

We talked of books being written in England and France, in Germany andRussia, all dealing with deep changes in the views and beliefs anddesires of men. 

"Any man, " he said, "who thinks that modern Europe will go smoothly, quietly on, needs a dose of your harbor to open his eyes. "

He turned to me with a sudden thought. 

"Why don't you write a book, " he asked, "about this harbor you haveknown!"

Eleanore made a quick move in her chair. 

"That's just what you ought to do!" she exclaimed. 

"I wonder if I could, " I said. "It would be hard to see it now, as itlooked at all the different times. "

"You'll hardly be able to do that, " the Englishman answered quietly. "Because to each one of us, I suppose, not only his present but his pastis constantly changing to his view. But I wouldn't let that bother you. What would interest me as a reader would be your view of your life asyou look back upon it to-day--in this present stage of your growth. 

"I was raised in the Alps myself, " he went on. "So _my_ picture of lifeis the mountain path. As I climb and turn now and then to look back, thetwisting little path below appears quite different each time. But stillI keep on writing--my changing view of the slope behind and of therising peaks ahead. And now and then by working my hardest I've felt thegreat joy of writing the truth. As you know, it isn't easy. But year byyear I've felt my readers grow in number. I believe they are going togrow and grow, not mine nor yours but the readers of all the chaps likeourselves, the readers who pick up each new book with the hope that onemore fellow has done his best--not to please them but to pleasehimself--by telling of life as he has seen it--his changing life throughhis changing eyes. "

 * * * * *

After he left us there was a long silence. Both of us were thinkinghard. And as Eleanore looked up to the stars I saw their brightness inher eyes. 

"Yes, " she said at last, "I'm sure. I'm sure you'd better take hisadvice--and write as truthfully as you can the whole story as you see itnow--of this strange harbor you have known. "

We talked long and eagerly that night. 

CHAPTER VI

I began my story of the harbor. Every hour that I could spare from thestories and sketches of tenement life by which I made a scant livingthose days, I spent in gathering memories of my long struggle with thisplace, arranging and selecting and setting them in order for this recordof the great life I had seen. 

 * * * * *

But this wide world has many such lives, many heaving forces. And eversince I had been born, while I had been building for myself one afterthe other these gods of civilization and peace--all unheeded by my eyesa black shadow had been silently creeping over the whole ocean world. Now from across the water there came the first low grumble of war. Within one short portentous week that grumble had become a roar, andbefore all the startled peoples had time to realize what was here, vastarmies were being rushed over the lands, all Europe was in chaos--andthe world was on the eve of the most prodigious change of all. 

And like the mirror of the world that it had always been to me, theharbor at once reflected this change. Only a little time before, I hadseen it almost empty, except for that crude boat of the crowd; the_Internationale_, with its songs of brotherhood and of a world wherewars should cease. Now I saw it jammed with ships from whose masts flewevery flag on the seas, and from the men who came ashore I heard of howthey had been chased, some fired upon, by battleships--I heard of warupon the seas. I felt my father's world reborn, an ocean world wherethere was nothing without fighting, and where every nation fought. Ours had already entered the lists, with a loud clamor for ships of ourown in which to seize this sudden chance for our share of the trade ofthe world. The great canal was open at last, and Europe in her turmoilhad had not even a moment to look. The East and South lay open tous--rush in and get our share at last! Make our nation strong at sea!

And while in blind confusion I groped for some new footing here, stroveto see what it was going to mean to that fair world of brotherhood whichI had seen struggling to be born--suddenly as though in reply there camea sharp voice out of the crowd. 

Joe Kramer came to trial for his life. Before his case went to the jury, Joe rose up and addressed them. And he spoke of war and violence. Hespoke of how in times of peace this present system murders men--on shipsand docks and railroads, in the mills and down in the mines. And asthough these lives were not enough, the powers above in this scramblefor theirs for all the profits in the world, all the sweated labor theycould wring out of humankind, had now flown at each others' throats. Andthe blood of the common people was pouring out upon the earth. 

"My comrades over the water, " he said, "saw this coming years ago. Theyworked day and night to gather the workers of Europe together againstthis war that will blacken the world. For that they were calledanti-patriots, fiends, men without a country. And some were imprisonedand others were shot. And over here--where in times of peace the numberof killed and wounded is over five hundred thousand a year--forrebelling against this murder they have called me murderer--and haveplaced me here on trial for my life. 

"And what I want to ask you now is that you take no halfway course. Either send me out of this dock a free man or up the river to the chair. For this is no year for compromise. Am I a murderer? Yes or no. Decidewith your eyes wide open. If you set me free I shall still rebel. Ishall join my comrades over the sea who already are going about in thecamps and saying to the rank and file--'You can stop this slaughter! Youcan save this world gone mad! You can end this murder--both in time ofwar and peace!'"

 * * * * *

And the jury set Joe free. 

Early in the following week I went down to his room by the docks for alast evening with him there. Joe was sailing that same night. Under aname not his own he had taken passage in the steerage of the big fastliner which was to sail at one o'clock. Into his room all evening pouredhis revolutionist friends, and the chance of revolution abroad wastalked of in cool practical terms. Nothing could be done, they said, inthe first few months to stop this war. Years ago the man in France, whohad led the anti-war movement, had predicted that if war broke out everygovernment rushing in would force on its people the belief that this wasno war of aggression but one of defense of the fatherland from a fierceonrushing foe. And so in truth it had come about, and against thatappeal to fight for their homes no voice of reason could stem the tide. 

The socialists had been swept on with the rest. By tens and hundreds ofthousands they had already gone to the front. But it was upon this veryfact that Joe and his friends now rested their hopes. For just so soonas in the camps the first burst of enthusiasm had begun to die away, asthe millions in the armies began to grow sick of the sight of blood, thegroans and the shrieks of the wounded and dying, the stench of thedead--and themselves weary of fighting, worn by privation and disease, began to think of their distant homes, their wives and children starvingthere--then these socialists in their midst, one at every bivouack fire, would begin to ask them:

"Why is it that we are at war? What good is all this blood to us? Is itto make our toil any lighter, life any brighter in our homes--or were wesent out by our rulers to die only in order that they in their scramblemight take more of the earth for themselves? And if this is true why notrise like men and end this fearful carnage?"

Already these thousands were in the camps. Into Joe's room that eveningcame men to give him the names and regiments of those comrades he couldtrust. Joe with a few hundred others was to make his dangerous way intothe camps and the barracks, wherever that was possible, of French andRussians and Germans alike, to carry news from one to the other, to makeready and to plan. 

Now and then, in the talk that night, I felt the thrilling presence ofthat rising god, that giant spirit of the crowd, not dead but onlysleeping now to gain new strength for what it must do. And again ingleams and flashes I saw the vision of the end--the world for all theworkers. For in this crowded tenement room, forgotten now bygovernments, this rough earnest group of men seemed so sure of thisworld of theirs, so sure that it was now soon to be born. 

One by one they went away, and Joe and I were left alone. Slowly herefilled his pipe. I thought of the talks we had had in ten years. 

"Well Bill, " he inquired at last, "what are you going to do withyourself?"

"Write what I see in the crowd, " I said, "from my new point ofview--this year's point of view, " I added. I went on to tell him whatthe English writer had said. And I told of my book on the harbor. 

"Well, " said Joe when I was through, "I guess it's about the best youcan do. You've got a wife to think of. "

"You don't know her, " I rejoined, and I told him how she had changed ourhome in order not to stop my work. 

"But don't you see what she's up to?" said Joe. 

"What the devil do you mean?" I asked indignantly. Joe blew a pityingpuff of smoke. 

"You poor blind dub of a husband, " he said with his old affectionatesmile, "she's making you love her all the more. You're anchored worsethan ever. _You_ can't go over to Europe and take a chance at beingshot. Don't you see the hole you're in? You've got to care what happensto you. "

"I'm not so sure of that, Joe, " I said. "Things in this world arechanging so fast that it's hard for any man in it to tell where he'll bein a year from now--or even a few short months from now. It's the yearthat no man can see beyond. "

"You mean you're coming over?" he asked. 

"I'm not sure. Just now I'm going to finish this book. I'm going to seeEleanore through till the baby is born. But after that--if over inEurope the people rise against this war--I don't just see how I can keepout. "

Joe looked at me queerly. And with a curious gruffness, "I hope you will keep out, " he said. "There aren't many women like yourwife. "

He pulled an old grip from under his bed and began throwing in a fewbooks and clothes. From a drawer he swept a few colored shirts, someunderclothes and a small revolver. 

"J. K. , " I said, "I've been thinking about us. And I think our youth isgone. "

"What's youth?" asked Joe indifferently. 

"Youth, " I replied, "is the time when you can think anything, feelanything and go anywhere. "

"I'm still going anywhere, " he remarked. 

"But you can't think anything, " I rejoined. "You say I'm tied to a wifeand home. All right, I'm glad I am. But you're tied, too. You're tied toa creed, Mister Syndicalist--a creed so stiff that you can't think ofanything else. "

"All right, I'm glad I am, " he echoed. "I'm sorry youth lasted as longas it did. "

He closed his grip and strapped it. Then he took up his hat and coat andthrew a last look about the room where he had lived for a year or more. 

"Breaking up home ties, " he said with a grin. "Don't come to the boat, "he added downstairs. "She don't sail for an hour or two and I'll beasleep in my bunk long before. "

"All right. Good-by, J. K. --remember we may meet over there----"

Again that gruffness came into his voice:

"If you do, you'll be taking a mighty big chance, " he said. "Good-by, Bill--it's just possible we may never meet again. Glad to have made youracquaintance, Kid. Here's wishing you luck. "

He turned and went off down the Farm with that long swinging walk ofhis, his big heavy shoulders bent rather more than before. And as Istood looking after him I thought of the lonely winding road that he wasto travel day and night, into slums of cities and in and out among thecamps. 

 * * * * *

I walked slowly back through the tenements toward the new home amongthem that Eleanore had made. 

In the summer's night the city streets were still alive with people. Ipassed brightly lighted thoroughfares where I saw them in crowds, and Iknew that this tide of people flowed endlessly through the hundreds ofmiles of streets that made up the port of New York. Hurrying, idling, talking and laughing, quarreling, fighting, here stopping to look atdisplays in shop windows, there pouring into "Movies"--and walking, walking, walking on. Going up into their tenement homes to eat anddrink, love, breed and sleep, to wake up and come down to another day. 

So the crowd moved on and on, while the great harbor surrounding theirlives and shaping their lives, went on with its changes unheeded. 

I tried to think of this harbor as being run by this common crowd--ofthe railroads, mines and factories, of the colleges, hospitals and allinstitutions of research, and the theaters and concert halls, thepicture galleries, all the books--all in the power of the crowd. 

"It will be a long time, " I thought. "Before it comes the crowd mustchange. But they will change--and fast or slow, I belong with them whilethey're changing. "

Something Joe had once said came into my mind:

"They're the ones who get shot down in wars and worked like dogs in timeof peace. "

And I thought of the crowds across the sea--of men being rushed overEurope on trains, or marching along starlit roads, or tramping acrossmeadows. And I thought of long lines of fire at dawn spurting from themouths of guns--from mountainsides, from out of woods, from trenches infast blackening fields--and of men in endless multitudes pitching ontheir faces as the fire mowed them down. 

And with those men, it seemed to me, went all the great gods I hadknown--gods of civilization and peace--the kind god in my mother'schurch and the smiling goddess in Paris, the clear-eyed god ofefficiency and the awakening god of the crowd--all plunging into thisfurnace of war with the men in whose spirits all gods dwell--to shriveland melt in seething flame and emerge at last in strange new forms. Whatwould come out of the furnace?

I thought of Joe and his comrades going about in towns and camps, speaking low and watching, waiting, hoping to bring a new dawn, a neworder, out of this chaotic night. 

And I heard them say to these governments:

"Your civilization is crashing down. For a hundred years, in all ourstrikes and risings, you preached against our violence--you talked ofyour law and order, your clear deliberate thinking. In you lay the hopeof the world, you said. You were Civilization. You were Mind andScience, in you was all Efficiency, in you was Art, Religion, and youkept the Public Peace. But now you have broken all your vows. Theworld's treasures of Art are as safe with you as they were in the DarkAges. Your Prince of Peace you have trampled down. And all your Scienceyou have turned to the efficient slaughter of men. In a week of yourboasted calmness you have plunged the world into a violence beside whichall the bloodshed in our strikes and revolutions seems like a poolbeside the sea. And so you have failed, you powers above, blindly andstupidly you have failed. For you have let loose a violence where youare weak and we are strong. We are these armies that you have calledout. And before we go back to our homes we shall make sure that thesehomes of ours shall no more become ashes at your will. For we shall stopthis war of yours and in our minds we shall put away all hatred of ourbrother men. For us they will be workers all. With them we shall riseand rise again--until at last the world is free!"

The voice had ceased--and again I was walking by myself along a crowdedtenement street. Immigrants from Europe, brothers, sons and fathers ofthe men now in the camps, kept passing me along the way. As I lookedinto their faces I saw no hope for Europe there. Such men could take andhold no world. But then I remembered how in the strike, out of just suchmen as these, I had seen a giant slowly born. Would that crowd spiritrise again? Could it be that the time was near when this last andmightiest of the gods would rise and take the world in his hands?

 * * * * *

At home I found Eleanore asleep. For a time I sat at my desk and madesome notes for my writing. I read and smoked for a little, thenundressed and went to bed. But still I lay there wide awake--thinking ofthis home of mine and of where I might be in a few months more, in thisyear that no man can see beyond. For all the changes in the world seemedgathering in a cyclone now. 

I was nearly asleep when I was roused by a thick voice from the harbor. Low in the distance, deep but now rising blast on blast, its waves ofsound beat into the city--into millions of ears of sleepers andwatchers, the well, the sick and the dying, the dead, the lovers, theschemers, the dreamers, the toilers, the spenders and wasters. I shut myeyes and saw the huge liner on which Joe was sailing moving slowly outof its slip. Down at its bottom men shoveling coal to the clang of itsgong. On the decks above them, hundreds of cabins and suites deluxe--most of them dark and empty now. Bellowing impatiently as it sweptout into the stream, it seemed to be saying:

"Make way for me. Make way, all you little men. Make way, all you habitsand all you institutions, all you little creeds and gods. For I am thestart of the voyage--over the ocean to heathen lands! And I am alwaysstarting out and always bearing you along! For I am your molder, I amstrong--I am a surprise, I am a shock--I am a dazzling passion ofhope--I am a grim executioner! I am reality--I am life! I am the bookthat has no end. "

 * * * * *

JOHN FOX, JR'S. 

STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. 

THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. 

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall treethat stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pinelured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when hefinally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, andthe trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madderchase than "the trail of the lonesome pine. "

THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come. " Itis a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which oftensprings the flower of civilization. 

"Chad, " the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence hecame--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered andmothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in themountains. 

A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. 

Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. 

The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair ofmoonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and theheroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight. " Twoimpetuous young Southerners fall under the spell of "The Blight's"charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in thelove making of the mountaineers. 

Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some ofMr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives. 

 * * * * *

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list

LADDIE. 

Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. 

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The storyis told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but itis concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairsof older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie, theolder brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess, an Englishgirl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose familythere hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the book and adouble wedding at the close. 

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. 

"The Harvester, " David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, whodraws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If thebook had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would benotable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods, " and theHarvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of lifewhich has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllicquality. 

FRECKLES, Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford. 

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which hetakes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the greatLimberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs tothe charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "TheAngel" are full of real sentiment. 

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda. 

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type ofthe self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindnesstowards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty ofher soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren andunpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. 

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. Thestory is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, andits pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. 

MYRTLE REED'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. 

A charming story of a quaint corner of New England where bygone romancefinds a modern parallel. The story centers round the coming of love tothe young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of theprettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old fashioned love stories, * * * arare book, exquisite in spirit and conception, full of delicate fancy, of tenderness, of delightful humor and spontaneity. 

A SPINNER IN THE SUN. 

Miss Myrtle Reed may always be depended upon to write a story in whichpoetry, charm, tenderness and humor are combined into a clever andentertaining book. Her characters are delightful and she always displaysa quaint humor of expression and a quiet feeling of pathos which give atouch of active realism to all her writings. In "A Spinner in the Sun"she tells an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives insolitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen. There is amystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour ofromance. 

THE MASTER'S VIOLIN. 

A love story in a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German virtuosois the reverent possessor of a genuine "Cremona. " He consents to takefor his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude fortechnique, but not the soul of an artist. The youth has led the happy, careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American and he cannot, withhis meagre past, express the love, the passion and the tragedies of lifeand all its happy phases as can the master who has lived life in all itsfulness. But a girl comes into his life--a beautiful bit of humandriftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart and home, and throughhis passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has togive--and his soul awakes. 

Founded on a fact that all artists realize. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS

THE KIND THAT ARE MAKING THEATRICAL HISTORY

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

WITHIN THE LAW. By Bayard Veiller & Marvin Dana. Illustrated by Wm. Charles Cooke. 

This is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran fortwo years in New York and Chicago. 

The plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directedagainst her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for threeyears on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent. 

WHAT HAPPENED TO MARY. By Robert Carlton Brown. Illustrated with scenesfrom the play. 

This is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenlythrown into the very heart of New York, "the land of her dreams, " whereshe is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers. 

The story of Mary is being told in moving pictures and played intheatres all over the world. 

THE RETURN OF PETER GRIMM. By David Belasco. Illustrated by John Rae. 

This is a novelization of the popular play in which David Warfield, asOld Peter Grimm, scored such a remarkable success. 

The story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play. 

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens. 

This novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlitbarbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness. 

It is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. The play hasbeen staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. 

BEN HUR. A Tale of the Christ. By General Lew Wallace. 

The whole world has placed this famous Religious-Historical Romance on aheight of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. Theclashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfectreproduction of brilliant Roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphereof the arena have kept their deep fascination. A tremendous dramaticsuccess. 

BOUGHT AND PAID FOR. By George Broadhurst and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrated with scenes from the play. 

A stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created aninterest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. The scenes are laidin New York, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor. 

The interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments whichshow the young wife the price she has paid. 

GROSSET & DUNLAP'S DRAMATIZED NOVELS

Original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that aremaking theatrical history. 

MADAME X. By Alexandre Bisson and J. W. McConaughy. Illustrated withscenes from the play. 

A beautiful Parisienne became an outcast because her husband would notforgive an error of her youth. Her love for her son is the great finalinfluence in her career. A tremendous dramatic success. 

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH. By Robert Hichens. 

An unconventional English woman and an inscrutable stranger meet andlove in an oasis of the Sahara. Staged this season with magnificent castand gorgeous properties. 

THE PRINCE OF INDIA. By Lew. Wallace. 

A glowing romance of the Byzantine Empire, presenting with extraordinarypower the siege of Constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with thewarm underglow of an Oriental romance. As a play it is a great dramaticspectacle. 

TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White. Illust. By HowardChandler Christy. 

A girl from the dregs of society, loves a young Cornell Universitystudent, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives ofthose about her. The dramatic version is one of the sensations of theseason. 

YOUNG WALLINGFORD. By George Randolph Chester. Illust. By F. R. Grugerand Henry Raleigh. 

A series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each ofwhich is just on the safe side of a State's prison offence. As"Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford, " it is probably the most amusing exposé ofmoney manipulation ever seen on the stage. 

THE INTRUSION OF JIMMY. By P. G. Wodehouse. Illustrations by Will Grefe. 

Social and club life in London and New York, an amateur burglaryadventure and a love story. Dramatized under the title of "A Gentlemanof Leisure, " it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers. 

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS

Colored frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton. 

Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent Mexicanborder of the present day. A New York society girl buys a ranch whichbecomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal cowboys defend herproperty from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she iscaptured by them. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightfulclose. 

DESERT GOLD

Illustrated by Douglas Duer. 

Another fascinating story of the Mexican border. Two men, lost in thedesert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go nofarther. The rest of the story describes the recent uprising along theborder, and ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectorshad willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. 

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

Illustrated by Douglas Duer. 

A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormonauthority ruled. In the persecution of Jane Withersteen, a rich ranchowner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisiblehand of the Mormon Church to break her will. 

THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN

Illustrated with photograph reproductions. 

This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desertand of a hunt in "that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canonsand giant pines. " It is a fascinating story. 

THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

Jacket in color. Frontispiece. 

This big human drama is played in the Painted Desert. A lovely girl, whohas been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. TheMormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the secondwife of one of the Mormons--

Well, that's the problem of this sensational, big selling story. 

BETTY ZANE

Illustrated by Louis F. Grant. 

This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautifulyoung sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers, lifealong the frontier, attacks by Indians, Betty's heroic defense of thebeleaguered garrison at Wheeling, the burning of the Fort, and Betty'sfinal race for life, make up this never-to-be-forgotten story. 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list. As

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