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  <head>
    <title>
      Where the Blue Begins, by Christopher Morley
    </title>
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  <body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1402 ***</div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      WHERE THE BLUE BEGINS
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Christopher Morley
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         <b>TO FELIX and TOTO</b>
      </pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  &ldquo;I am not free&mdash;
                  And it may be
                Life is too tight around my shins;
                  For, unlike you,
                  I can't break through
                A truant where the blue begins.

                  &ldquo;Out of the very element
                  Of bondage, that here holds me pent,
                I'll make my furious sonnet:
                  I'll turn my noose
                  To tightrope use
                And madly dance upon it.

                   &ldquo;So I will take
                   My leash, and make
                A wilder and more subtle fleeing
                   And I shall be
                   More escapading and more free
                Than you have ever dreamed of being!&rdquo;
       </pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER ONE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER TWO </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER THREE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER FOUR </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER FIVE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER SIX </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER SEVEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER EIGHT </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER NINE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER TEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER ELEVEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER TWELVE </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER THIRTEEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER FOURTEEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER FIFTEEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER SIXTEEN </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER SEVENTEEN </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ONE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Gissing lived alone (except for his Japanese butler) in a little house in
      the country, in that woodland suburb region called the Canine Estates. He
      lived comfortably and thoughtfully, as bachelors often do. He came of a
      respectable family, who had always conducted themselves calmly and without
      too much argument. They had bequeathed him just enough income to live on
      cheerfully, without display but without having to do addition and
      subtraction at the end of the month and then tear up the paper lest Fuji
      (the butler) should see it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was strange, since Gissing was so pleasantly situated in life, that he
      got into these curious adventures that I have to relate. I do not attempt
      to explain it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had no responsibilities, not even a motor car, for his tastes were
      surprisingly simple. If he happened to be spending an evening at the
      country club, and a rainstorm came down, he did not worry about getting
      home. He would sit by the fire and chuckle to see the married members
      creep away one by one. He would get out his pipe and sleep that night at
      the club, after telephoning Fuji not to sit up for him. When he felt like
      it he used to read in bed, and even smoke in bed. When he went to town to
      the theatre, he would spend the night at a hotel to avoid the fatigue of
      the long ride on the 11:44 train. He chose a different hotel each time, so
      that it was always an Adventure. He had a great deal of fun.
    </p>
    <p>
      But having fun is not quite the same as being happy. Even an income of
      1000 bones a year does not answer all questions. That charming little
      house among the groves and thickets seemed to him surrounded by strange
      whispers and quiet voices. He was uneasy. He was restless, and did not
      know why. It was his theory that discipline must be maintained in the
      household, so he did not tell Fuji his feelings. Even when he was alone,
      he always kept up a certain formality in the domestic routine. Fuji would
      lay out his dinner jacket on the bed: he dressed, came down to the dining
      room with quiet dignity, and the evening meal was served by candle-light.
      As long as Fuji was at work, Gissing sat carefully in the armchair by the
      hearth, smoking a cigar and pretending to read the paper. But as soon as
      the butler had gone upstairs, Gissing always kicked off his dinner suit
      and stiff shirt, and lay down on the hearth-rug. But he did not sleep. He
      would watch the wings of flame gilding the dark throat of the chimney, and
      his mind seemed drawn upward on that rush of light, up into the pure chill
      air where the moon was riding among sluggish thick floes of cloud. In the
      darkness he heard chiming voices, wheedling and tantalizing. One night he
      was walking on his little verandah. Between rafts of silver-edged clouds
      were channels of ocean-blue sky, inconceivably deep and transparent. The
      air was serene, with a faint acid taste. Suddenly there shrilled a soft,
      sweet, melancholy whistle, earnestly repeated. It seemed to come from the
      little pond in the near-by copses. It struck him strangely. It might be
      anything, he thought. He ran furiously through the field, and to the brim
      of the pond. He could find nothing, all was silent. Then the whistlings
      broke out again, all round him, maddeningly. This kept on, night after
      night. The parson, whom he consulted, said it was only frogs; but Gissing
      told the constable he thought God had something to do with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then willow trees and poplars showed a pallid bronze sheen, forsythias
      were as yellow as scrambled eggs, maples grew knobby with red buds. Among
      the fresh bright grass came, here and there, exhilarating smells of last
      year's buried bones. The little upward slit at the back of Gissing's
      nostrils felt prickly. He thought that if he could bury it deep enough in
      cold beef broth it would be comforting. Several times he went out to the
      pantry intending to try the experiment, but every time Fuji happened to be
      around. Fuji was a Japanese pug, and rather correct, so Gissing was
      ashamed to do what he wanted to. He pretended he had come out to see that
      the icebox pan had been emptied properly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must get the plumber to put in a pukka drain-pipe to take the place of
      the pan,&rdquo; Gissing said to Fuji; but he knew that he had no intention of
      doing so. The ice-box pan was his private test of a good servant. A cook
      who forgot to empty it was too careless, he thought, to be a real success.
    </p>
    <p>
      But certainly there was some curious elixir in the air. He went for walks,
      and as soon as he was out of sight of the houses he threw down his hat and
      stick and ran wildly, with great exultation, over the hills and fields. &ldquo;I
      really ought to turn all this energy into some sort of constructive work,&rdquo;
       he said to himself. No one else, he mused, seemed to enjoy life as keenly
      and eagerly as he did. He wondered, too, about the other sex. Did they
      feel these violent impulses to run, to shout, to leap and caper in the
      sunlight? But he was a little startled, on one of his expeditions, to see
      in the distance the curate rushing hotly through the underbrush, his
      clerical vestments dishevelled, his tongue hanging out with excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must go to church more often,&rdquo; said Gissing.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the golden light and pringling air he felt excitable and high-strung.
      His tail curled upward until it ached. Finally he asked Mike Terrier, who
      lived next door, what was wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's spring,&rdquo; Mike said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, of course, jolly old spring!&rdquo; said Gissing, as though this was
      something he had known all along, and had just forgotten for the moment.
      But he didn't know. This was his first spring, for he was only ten months
      old.
    </p>
    <p>
      Outwardly he was the brisk, genial figure that the suburb knew and
      esteemed. He was something of a mystery among his neighbours of the Canine
      Estates, because he did not go daily to business in the city, as most of
      them did; nor did he lead a life of brilliant amusement like the
      Airedales, the wealthy people whose great house was near by. Mr. Poodle,
      the conscientious curate, had called several times but was not able to
      learn anything definite. There was a little card-index of parishioners,
      which it was Mr. Poodle's duty to fill in with details of each person's
      business, charitable inclinations, and what he could do to amuse a Church
      Sociable. The card allotted to Gissing was marked, in Mr. Poodle's neat
      script, Friendly, but vague as to definite participation in Xian
      activities. Has not communicated.
    </p>
    <p>
      But in himself, Gissing was increasingly disturbed. Even his seizures of
      joy, which came as he strolled in the smooth spring air and sniffed the
      wild, vigorous aroma of the woodland earth, were troublesome because he
      did not know why he was so glad. Every morning it seemed to him that life
      was about to exhibit some delicious crisis in which the meaning and
      excellence of all things would plainly appear. He sang in the bathtub.
      Daily it became more difficult to maintain that decorum which Fuji
      expected. He felt that his life was being wasted. He wondered what ought
      to be done about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWO
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was after dinner, an April evening, and Gissing slipped away from the
      house for a stroll. He was afraid to stay in, because he knew that if he
      did, Fuji would ask him again to fix the dishcloth rack in the kitchen.
      Fuji was very short in stature, and could not reach up to the place where
      the rack was screwed over the sink. Like all people whose minds are very
      active, Gissing hated to attend to little details like this. It was a
      weakness in his character. Fuji had asked him six times to fix the rack,
      but Gissing always pretended to forget about it. To appease his methodical
      butler he had written on a piece of paper FIX DISHCLOTH RACK and pinned it
      on his dressing-table pincushion; but he paid no attention to the
      memorandum.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went out into a green April dusk. Down by the pond piped those repeated
      treble whistlings: they still distressed him with a mysterious unriddled
      summons, but Mike Terrier had told him that the secret of respectability
      is to ignore whatever you don't understand. Careful observation of this
      maxim had somewhat dulled the cry of that shrill queer music. It now
      caused only a faint pain in his mind. Still, he walked that way because
      the little meadow by the pond was agreeably soft underfoot. Also, when he
      walked close beside the water the voices were silent. That is worth
      noting, he said to himself. If you go directly at the heart of a mystery,
      it ceases to be a mystery, and becomes only a question of drainage. (Mr.
      Poodle had told him that if he had the pond and swamp drained, the
      frog-song would not annoy him.) But to-night, when the keen chirruping
      ceased, there was still another sound that did not cease&mdash;a faint,
      appealing cry. It caused a prickling on his shoulder blades, it made him
      both angry and tender. He pushed through the bushes. In a little hollow
      were three small puppies, whining faintly. They were cold and draggled
      with mud. Someone had left them there, evidently, to perish. They were
      huddled close together; their eyes, a cloudy unspeculative blue, were only
      just opened. &ldquo;This is gruesome,&rdquo; said Gissing, pretending to be shocked.
      &ldquo;Dear me, innocent pledges of sin, I dare say. Well, there is only one
      thing to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He picked them up carefully and carried them home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick, Fuji!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Warm some milk, some of the Grade A, and put a
      little brandy in it. I'll get the spare-room bed ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rushed upstairs, wrapped the puppies in a blanket, and turned on the
      electric heater to take the chill from the spare-room. The little pads of
      their paws were ice-cold, and he filled the hot water bottle and held it
      carefully to their twelve feet. Their pink stomachs throbbed, and at first
      he feared they were dying. &ldquo;They must not die!&rdquo; he said fiercely. &ldquo;If they
      did, it would be a matter for the police, and no end of trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fuji came up with the milk, and looked very grave when he saw the muddy
      footprints on the clean sheet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Fuji,&rdquo; said Gissing, &ldquo;do you suppose they can lap, or will we have
      to pour it down?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In spite of his superior manner, Fuji was a good fellow in an emergency.
      It was he who suggested the fountain-pen filler. They washed the ink out
      of it, and used it to drip the hot brandy-and-milk down the puppies'
      throats. Their noses, which had been icy, suddenly became very hot and
      dry. Gissing feared a fever and thought their temperatures should be
      taken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The only thermometer we have,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is the one on the porch, with
      the mercury split in two. I don't suppose that would do. Have you a
      clinical thermometer, Fuji?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fuji felt that his employer was making too much fuss over the matter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; he said firmly. &ldquo;They are quite all right. A good sleep will
      revive them. They will be as fit as possible in the morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fuji went out into the garden to brush the mud from his neat white jacket.
      His face was inscrutable. Gissing sat by the spare-room bed until he was
      sure the puppies were sleeping correctly. He closed the door so that Fuji
      would not hear him humming a lullaby. Three Blind Mice was the only
      nursery song he could remember, and he sang it over and over again.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he tiptoed downstairs, Fuji had gone to bed. Gissing went into his
      study, lit a pipe, and walked up and down, thinking. By and bye he wrote
      two letters. One was to a bookseller in the city, asking him to send (at
      once) one copy of Dr. Holt's book on the Care and Feeding of Children, and
      a well-illustrated edition of Mother Goose. The other was to Mr. Poodle,
      asking him to fix a date for the christening of Mr. Gissing's three small
      nephews, who had come to live with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is lucky they are all boys,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;I would know nothing about
      bringing up girls.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose,&rdquo; he added after a while, &ldquo;that I shall have to raise Fuji's
      wages.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he went into the kitchen and fixed the dishcloth rack.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before going to bed that night he took his usual walk around the house.
      The sky was freckled with stars. It was generally his habit to make a tour
      of his property toward midnight, to be sure everything was in good order.
      He always looked into the ice-box, and admired the cleanliness of Fuji's
      arrangements. The milk bottles were properly capped with their round
      cardboard tops; the cheese was never put on the same rack with the butter;
      the doors of the ice-box were carefully latched. Such observations, and
      the slow twinkle of the fire in the range, deep down under the curfew
      layer of coals, pleased him. In the cellar he peeped into the garbage can,
      for it was always a satisfaction to assure himself that Fuji did not waste
      anything that could be used. One of the laundry tub taps was dripping,
      with a soft measured tinkle: he said to himself that he really must have
      it attended to. All these domestic matters seemed more significant than
      ever when he thought of youthful innocence sleeping upstairs in the
      spare-room bed. His had been a selfish life hitherto, he feared. These
      puppies were just what he needed to take him out of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Busy with these thoughts, he did not notice the ironical whistling coming
      from the pond. He tasted the night air with cheerful satisfaction. &ldquo;At any
      rate, to-morrow will be a fine day,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day it rained. But Gissing was too busy to think about the
      weather. Every hour or so during the night he had gone into the spare room
      to listen attentively to the breathing of the puppies, to pull the blanket
      over them, and feel their noses. It seemed to him that they were
      perspiring a little, and he was worried lest they catch cold. His morning
      sleep (it had always been his comfortable habit to lie abed a trifle late)
      was interrupted about seven o'clock by a lively clamour across the hall.
      The puppies were awake, perfectly restored, and while they were too young
      to make their wants intelligible, they plainly expected some attention. He
      gave them a pair of old slippers to play with, and proceeded to his own
      toilet.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he was bathing them, after breakfast, he tried to enlist Fuji's
      enthusiasm. &ldquo;Did you ever see such fat rascals?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I wonder if we
      ought to trim their tails? How pink their stomachs are, and how pink and
      delightful between their toes! You hold these two while I dry the other.
      No, not that way! Hold them so you support their spines. A puppy's back is
      very delicate: you can't be too careful. We'll have to do things in a
      rough-and-ready way until Dr. Holt's book comes. After that we can be
      scientific.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fuji did not seem very keen. Presently, in spite of the rain, he was
      dispatched to the village department store to choose three small cribs and
      a multitude of safety pins. &ldquo;Plenty of safety pins is the idea,&rdquo; said
      Gissing. &ldquo;With enough safety pins handy, children are easy to manage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the puppies were bestowed on the porch, in the sunshine, for
      their morning nap, he telephoned to the local paperhanger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you&rdquo; (he said) &ldquo;to come up as soon as you can with some nice
      samples of nursery wallpaper. A lively Mother Goose pattern would do very
      well.&rdquo; He had already decided to change the spare room into a nursery. He
      telephoned the carpenter to make a gate for the top of the stairs. He was
      so busy that he did not even have time to think of his pipe, or the
      morning paper. At last, just before lunch, he found a breathing space. He
      sat down in the study to rest his legs, and looked for the Times. It was
      not in its usual place on his reading table. At that moment the puppies
      woke up, and he ran out to attend them. He would have been distressed if
      he had known that Fuji had the paper in the kitchen, and was studying the
      HELP WANTED columns.
    </p>
    <p>
      A great deal of interest was aroused in the neighbourhood by the arrival
      of Gissing's nephews, as he called them. Several of the ladies, who had
      ignored him hitherto, called, in his absence, and left extra cards. This
      implied (he supposed, though he was not closely versed in such niceties of
      society) that there was a Mrs. Gissing, and he was annoyed, for he felt
      certain they knew he was a bachelor. But the children were a source of
      nothing but pride to him. They grew with astounding rapidity, ate their
      food without coaxing, rarely cried at night, and gave him much amusement
      by their naive ways. He was too occupied to be troubled with
      introspection. Indeed, his well-ordered home was very different from
      before. The trim lawn, in spite of his zealous efforts, was constantly
      littered with toys. In sheer mischief the youngsters got into his wardrobe
      and chewed off the tails of his evening dress coat. But he felt a
      satisfying dignity and happiness in his new status as head of a family.
    </p>
    <p>
      What worried him most was the fear that Fuji would complain of this sudden
      addition to his duties. The butler's face was rather an enigma,
      particularly at meal times, when Gissing sat at the dinner table
      surrounded by the three puppies in their high chairs, with a spindrift of
      milk and prune-juice spattering generously as the youngsters plied their
      spoons. Fuji had arranged a series of scuppers, made of oilcloth,
      underneath the chairs; but in spite of this the dining-room rug, after a
      meal, looked much as the desert place must have after the feeding of the
      multitude. Fuji, who was pensive, recalled the five loaves and two fishes
      that produced twelve baskets of fragments. The vacuum cleaner got clogged
      by a surfeit of crumbs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing saw that it would be a race between heart and head. If Fuji's
      heart should become entangled (that is, if the innocent charms of the
      children should engage his affections before his reason convinced him that
      the situation was now too arduous), there was some hope. He tried to ease
      the problem also by mental suggestion. &ldquo;It is really remarkable&rdquo; (he said
      to Fuji) &ldquo;that children should give one so little trouble.&rdquo; As he made
      this remark, he was speeding hotly to and fro between the bathroom and the
      nursery, trying to get one tucked in bed and another undressed, while the
      third was lashing the tub into soapy foam. Fuji made his habitual
      response, &ldquo;Very good, sir.&rdquo; But one fears that he detected some
      insincerity, for the next day, which was Sunday, he gave notice. This
      generally happens on a Sunday, because the papers publish more Help Wanted
      advertisements then than on any other day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm sorry, sir,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But when I took this place there was nothing
      said about three children.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was unreasonable of Fuji. It is very rare to have everything
      explained beforehand. When Adam and Eve were put into the Garden of Eden,
      there was nothing said about the serpent.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Gissing did not believe in entreating a servant to stay. He
      offered to give Fuji a raise, but the butler was still determined to
      leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My senses are very delicate,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I really cannot stand the&mdash;well,
      the aroma exhaled by those three children when they have had a warm bath.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What nonsense!&rdquo; cried Gissing. &ldquo;The smell of wet, healthy puppies?
      Nothing is more agreeable. You are cold-blooded: I don't believe you are
      fond of puppies. Think of their wobbly black noses. Consider how pink is
      the little cleft between their toes and the main cushion of their feet.
      Their ears are like silk. Inside their upper jaws are parallel black
      ridges, most remarkable. I never realized before how beautifully and
      carefully we are made. I am surprised that you should be so indifferent to
      these things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a moisture in Fuji's eyes, but he left at the end of the week.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THREE
    </h2>
    <p>
      A solitary little path ran across the fields not far from the house. It
      lay deep among tall grasses and the withered brittle stalks of last
      autumn's goldenrod, and here Gissing rambled in the green hush of
      twilight, after the puppies were in bed. In less responsible days he would
      have lain down on his back, with all four legs upward, and cheerily
      shrugged and rolled to and fro, as the crisp ground-stubble was very
      pleasing to the spine. But now he paced soberly, the smoke from his pipe
      eddying just above the top of the grasses. He had much to meditate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dogwood tree by the house was now in flower. The blossoms, with their
      four curved petals, seemed to spin like tiny white propellers in the
      bright air. When he saw them fluttering Gissing had a happy sensation of
      movement. The business of those tremulous petals seemed to be thrusting
      his whole world forward and forward, through the viewless ocean of space.
      He felt as though he were on a ship&mdash;as, indeed, we are. He had never
      been down to the open sea, but he had imagined it. There, he thought,
      there must be the satisfaction of a real horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horizons had been a great disappointment to him. In earlier days he had
      often slipped out of the house not long after sunrise, and had marvelled
      at the blue that lies upon the skyline. Here, about him, were the clear
      familiar colours of the world he knew; but yonder, on the hills, were
      trees and spaces of another more heavenly tint. That soft blue light, if
      he could reach it, must be the beginning of what his mind required.
    </p>
    <p>
      He envied Mr. Poodle, whose cottage was on that very hillslope that rose
      so imperceptibly into sky. One morning he ran and ran, in the lifting day,
      but always the blue receded. Hot and unbuttoned, he came by the curate's
      house, just as the latter emerged to pick up the morning paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where does the blue begin?&rdquo; Gissing panted, trying hard to keep his
      tongue from sliding out so wetly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate looked a trifle disturbed. He feared that something unpleasant
      had happened, and that his assistance might be required before breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is going to be a warm day,&rdquo; he said politely, and stooped for the
      newspaper, as a delicate hint.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where does&mdash;?&rdquo; began Gissing, quivering; but at that moment, looking
      round, he saw that it had hoaxed him again. Far away, on his own hill the
      other side of the village, shone the evasive colour. As usual, he had been
      too impetuous. He had not watched it while he ran; it had circled round
      behind him. He resolved to be more methodical.
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate gave him a blank to fill in, relative to baptizing the
      children, and was relieved to see him hasten away.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all this was some time ago. As he walked the meadow path, Gissing
      suddenly realized that lately he had had little opportunity for pursuing
      blue horizons. Since Fuji's departure every moment, from dawn to dusk, was
      occupied. In three weeks he had had three different servants, but none of
      them would stay. The place was too lonely, they said, and with three
      puppies the work was too hard. The washing, particularly was a horrid
      problem. Inexperienced as a parent, Gissing was probably too proud: he
      wanted the children always to look clean and soigne. The last cook had
      advertised herself as a General Houseworker, afraid of nothing; but as
      soon as she saw the week's wash in the hamper (including twenty-one grimy
      rompers), she telephoned to the station for a taxi. Gissing wondered why
      it was that the working classes were not willing to do one-half as much as
      he, who had been reared to indolent ease. Even more, he was irritated by a
      suspicion of the ice-wagon driver. He could not prove it, but he had an
      idea that this uncouth fellow obtained a commission from the Airedales and
      Collies, who had large mansions in the neighbourhood, for luring maids
      from the smaller homes. Of course Mrs. Airedale and Mrs. Collie could
      afford to pay any wages at all. So now the best he could do was to have
      Mrs. Spaniel, the charwoman, come up from the village to do the washing
      and ironing, two days a week. The rest of the work he undertook himself.
      On a clear afternoon, when the neighbours were not looking, he would take
      his own shirts and things down to the pond&mdash;putting them neatly in
      the bottom of the red express-wagon, with the puppies sitting on the
      linen, so no one would see. While the puppies played about and hunted for
      tadpoles, he would wash his shirts himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      His legs ached as he took his evening stroll&mdash;keeping within earshot
      of the house, so as to hear any possible outcry from the nursery. He had
      been on his feet all day. But he reflected that there was a real
      satisfaction in his family tasks, however gruelling. Now, at last (he said
      to himself), I am really a citizen, not a mere dilettante. Of course it is
      arduous. No one who is not a parent realizes, for example, the
      extraordinary amount of buttoning and unbuttoning necessary in rearing
      children. I calculate that 50,000 buttonings are required for each one
      before it reaches the age of even rudimentary independence. With the
      energy so expended one might write a great novel or chisel a statue. Never
      mind: these urchins must be my Works of Art. If one were writing a novel,
      he could not delegate to a hired servant the composition of laborious
      chapters.
    </p>
    <p>
      So he took his responsibility gravely. This was partly due to the
      christening service, perhaps, which had gone off very charmingly. It had
      not been without its embarrassments. None of the neighbouring ladies would
      stand as godmother, for they were secretly dubious as to the children's
      origin; so he had asked good Mrs. Spaniel to act in that capacity. She, a
      simple kindly creature, was much flattered, though certainly she can have
      understood very little of the symbolical rite. Gissing, filling out the
      form that Mr. Poodle had given him, had put down the names of an entirely
      imaginary brother and sister-in-law of his, &ldquo;deceased,&rdquo; whom he asserted
      as the parents. He had been so busy with preparations that he did not find
      time, before the ceremony, to study the text of the service; and when he
      and Mrs. Spaniel stood beneath the font with an armful of ribboned
      infancy, he was frankly startled by the magnitude of the promises exacted
      from him. He found that, on behalf of the children, he must &ldquo;renounce the
      devil and all his work, the vain pomp and glory of the world;&rdquo; that he
      must pledge himself to see that these infants would &ldquo;crucify the old man
      and utterly abolish the whole body of sin.&rdquo; It was rather doubtful whether
      they would do so, he reflected, as he felt them squirming in his arms
      while Mrs. Spaniel was busy trying to keep their socks on. When the curate
      exhorted him &ldquo;to follow the innocency&rdquo; of these little ones, it was
      disconcerting to have one of them burst into a piercing yammer, and
      wriggle so forcibly that it slipped quite out of its little embroidered
      shift and flannel band. But the actual access to the holy basin was more
      seemly, perhaps due to the children imagining they were going to find
      tadpoles there. When Mr. Poodle held them up they smiled with a vague
      almost bashful simplicity; and Mrs. Spaniel could not help murmuring &ldquo;The
      darlings!&rdquo; The curate, less experienced with children, had insisted on
      holding all three at once, and Gissing feared lest one of them might swarm
      over the surpliced shoulder and fall splash into the font. But though they
      panted a little with excitement, they did nothing to mar the solemn
      instant. While Mrs. Spaniel was picking up the small socks with which the
      floor was strewn, Gissing was deeply moved by the poetry of the ceremony.
      He felt that something had really been accomplished toward &ldquo;burying the
      Old Adam.&rdquo; And if Mrs. Spaniel ever grew disheartened at the wash-tubs, he
      was careful to remind her of the beautiful phrase about the mystical
      washing away of sin.
    </p>
    <p>
      They had been christened Groups, Bunks, and Yelpers, three traditional
      names in his family.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, he was reflecting as he walked in the dusk, Mrs. Spaniel was now
      his sheet anchor. Fortunately she showed signs of becoming extraordinarily
      attached to the puppies. On the two days a week when she came up from the
      village, it was even possible for him to get a little relaxation&mdash;to
      run down to the station for tobacco, or to lie in the hammock briefly with
      a book. Looking off from his airy porch, he could see the same blue
      distances that had always tempted him, but he felt too passive to wonder
      about them. He had given up the idea of trying to get any other servants.
      If it had been possible, he would have engaged Mrs. Spaniel to sleep in
      the house and be there permanently; but she had children of her own down
      in the shantytown quarter of the village, and had to go back to them at
      night. But certainly he made every effort to keep her contented. It was a
      long steep climb up from the hollow, so he allowed her to come in a taxi
      and charge it to his account. Then, on condition that she would come on
      Saturdays also, to help him clean up for Sunday, he allowed her, on that
      day, to bring her own children too, and all the puppies played riotously
      together around the place. But this he presently discontinued, for the
      clamour became so deafening that the neighbours complained. Besides, the
      young Spaniels, who were a little older, got Groups, Bunks, and Yelpers
      into noisy and careless habits of speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was anxious that they should grow up refined, and was distressed by
      little Shaggy Spaniel having brought up the Comic Section of a Sunday
      paper. With childhood's instinctive taste for primitive effects, the
      puppies fell in love with the coloured cartoons, and badgered him
      continually for &ldquo;funny papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There is a great deal more to think about in raising children (he said to
      himself) than is intimated in Dr. Holt's book on Care and Feeding. Even in
      matters that he had always taken for granted, such as fairy tales, he
      found perplexity. After supper&mdash;(he now joined the children in their
      evening bread and milk, for after cooking them a hearty lunch of meat and
      gravy and potatoes and peas and the endless spinach and carrots that the
      doctors advise, to say nothing of the prunes, he had no energy to prepare
      a special dinner for himself)&mdash;after supper it was his habit to read
      to them, hoping to give their imaginations a little exercise before they
      went to bed. He was startled to find that Grimm and Hans Andersen, which
      he had considered as authentic classics for childhood, were full of very
      strong stuff&mdash;morbid sentiment, bloodshed, horror, and all manner of
      painful circumstance. Reading the tales aloud, he edited as he went along;
      but he was subject to that curious weakness that afflicts some people:
      reading aloud made him helplessly sleepy: after a page or so he would fall
      into a doze, from which he would be awakened by the crash of a lamp or
      some other furniture. The children, seized with that furious hilarity that
      usually begins just about bedtime, would race madly about the house until
      some breakage or a burst of tears woke him from his trance. He would
      thrash them all and put them to bed howling. When they were asleep he
      would be touched with tender compassion, and steal in to tuck them up,
      admiring the innocence of each unconscious muzzle on its pillow.
      Sometimes, in a crisis of his problems, he thought of writing to Dr. Holt
      for advice; but the will-power was lacking.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is really astonishing how children can exhaust one, he used to think.
      Sometimes, after a long day, he was even too weary to correct their
      grammar. &ldquo;You lay down!&rdquo; Groups would admonish Yelpers, who was capering
      in his crib while Bunks was being lashed in with the largest size of
      safety pins. And Gissing, doggedly passing from one to another, was really
      too fatigued to reprove the verb, picked up from Mrs. Spaniel.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fairy tales proving a disappointment, he had great hopes of encouraging
      them in drawing. He bought innumerable coloured crayons and stacks of
      scribbling paper. After supper they would all sit down around the
      dining-room table and he drew pictures for them. Tongues depending with
      concentrated excitement, the children would try to copy these pictures and
      colour them. In spite of having three complete sets of crayons, a full
      roster of colours could rarely be found at drawing time. Bunks had the
      violet when Groups wanted it, and so on. But still, this was often the
      happiest hour of the day. Gissing drew amazing trains, elephants, ships,
      and rainbows, with the spectrum of colours correctly arranged and blended.
      The children specially loved his landscapes, which were opulently tinted
      and magnificent in long perspectives. He found himself always colouring
      the far horizons a pale and haunting blue.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was meditating these things when a shrill yammer recalled him to the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOUR
    </h2>
    <p>
      In this warm summer weather Gissing slept on a little outdoor balcony that
      opened off the nursery. The world, rolling in her majestic seaway, heeled
      her gunwale slowly into the trough of space. Disked upon this bulwark, the
      sun rose, and promptly Gissing woke. The poplars flittered in a cool stir.
      Beyond the tadpole pond, through a notch in the landscape, he could see
      the far darkness of the hills. That fringe of woods was a railing that
      kept the sky from flooding over the earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The level sun, warily peering over the edge like a cautious marksman,
      fired golden volleys unerringly at him. At once Gissing was aware and
      watchful. Brief truce was over: the hopeless war with Time began anew.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was his placid hour. Light, so early, lies timidly along the ground.
      It steals gently from ridge to ridge; it is soft, unsure. That blue
      dimness, receding from bole to bole, is the skirt of Night's garment,
      trailing off toward some other star. As easily as it slips from tree to
      tree, it glides from earth to Orion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Light, which later will riot and revel and strike pitilessly down, still
      is tender and tentative. It sweeps in rosy scythe-strokes, parallel to
      earth. It gilds, where later it will burn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing lay, without stirring. The springs of the old couch were creaky,
      and the slightest sound might arouse the children within. Now, until they
      woke, was his peace. Purposely he had had the sleeping porch built on the
      eastern side of the house. Making the sun his alarm clock, he prolonged
      the slug-a-bed luxury. He had procured the darkest and most opaque of all
      shades for the nursery windows, to cage as long as possible in that room
      Night the silencer. At this time of the year, the song of the mosquito was
      his dreaded nightingale. In spite of fine-mesh screens, always one or two
      would get in. Mrs. Spaniel, he feared, left the kitchen door ajar during
      the day, and these Borgias of the insect world, patiently invasive, seized
      their chance. It was a rare night when a sudden scream did not come from
      the nursery every hour or so. &ldquo;Daddy, a keeto, a keeto!&rdquo; was the anguish
      from one of the trio. The other two were up instantly, erect and yelping
      in their cribs, small black paws on the rail, pink stomachs candidly
      exposed to the winged stilleto. Lights on, and the room must be explored
      for the lurking foe. Scratching themselves vigorously, the fun of the
      chase assuaged the smart of those red welts. Gissing, wise by now, knew
      that after a forager the mosquito always retires to the ceiling, so he
      kept a stepladder in the room. Mounted on this, he would pursue the enemy
      with a towel, while the children screamed with merriment. Then stomachs
      must be anointed with more citronella; sheets and blankets reassembled,
      and quiet gradually restored. Life, as parents know, can be supported on
      very little sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how delicious to lie there, in the morning freshness, to hear the
      earth stir with reviving gusto, the merriment of birds, the exuberant
      clink of milk-bottles set down by the back-door, the whole complex
      machinery of life begin anew! Gissing was amazed now, looking back upon
      his previous existence, to see himself so busy, so active. Few people are
      really lazy, he thought: what we call laziness is merely maladjustment.
      For in any department of life where one is genuinely interested, he will
      be zealous beyond belief. Certainly he had not dreamed, until he became
      (in a manner of speaking) a parent, that he had in him such capacity for
      detail.
    </p>
    <p>
      This business of raising a family, though&mdash;had he any true aptitude
      for it? or was he forcing himself to go through with it? Wasn't he,
      moreover, incurring all the labours of parenthood without any of its
      proper dignity and social esteem? Mrs. Chow down the street, for instance,
      why did she look so sniffingly upon him when she heard the children, in
      the harmless uproar of their play, cry him aloud as Daddy? Uncle, he had
      intended they should call him; but that is, for beginning speech, a hard
      saying, embracing both a palatal and a liquid. Whereas Da-da&mdash;the
      syllables come almost unconsciously to the infant mouth. So he had
      encouraged it, and even felt an irrational pride in the honourable but
      unearned title.
    </p>
    <p>
      A little word, Daddy, but one of the most potent, he was thinking. More
      than a word, perhaps: a great social engine: an anchor which, cast
      carelessly overboard, sinks deep and fast into the very bottom. The vessel
      rides on her hawser, and where are your blue horizons then?
    </p>
    <p>
      But come now, isn't one horizon as good as another? And do they really
      remain blue when you reach them?
    </p>
    <p>
      Unconsciously he stirred, stretching his legs deeply into the comfortable
      nest of his couch. The springs twanged. Simultaneous clamours! The puppies
      were awake.
    </p>
    <p>
      They yelled to be let out from the cribs. This was the time of the morning
      frolic. Gissing had learned that there is only one way to deal with the
      almost inexhaustible energy of childhood. That is, not to attempt to check
      it, but to encourage and draw it out. To start the day with a rush,
      stimulating every possible outlet of zeal; meanwhile taking things as
      calmly and quietly as possible himself, sitting often to take the weight
      off his legs, and allowing the youngsters to wear themselves down. This,
      after all, is Nature's own way with man; it is the wise parent's tactic
      with children. Thus, by dusk, the puppies will have run themselves almost
      into a stupor; and you, if you have shrewdly husbanded your strength, may
      have still a little power in reserve for reading and smoking.
    </p>
    <p>
      The before-breakfast game was conducted on regular routine. Children show
      their membership in the species by their love of strict habit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing let them yell for a few moments&mdash;as long as he thought the
      neighbours would endure it&mdash;while he gradually gathered strength and
      resolution, shook off the cowardice of bed. Then he strode into the
      nursery. As soon as they heard him raising the shades there was complete
      silence. They hastened to pull the blankets over themselves, and lay
      tense, faces on paws, with bright expectant upward eyes. They trembled a
      little with impatience. It was all he could do to restrain himself from
      patting the sleek heads, which always seemed to shine with extra polish
      after a night's rolling to and fro on the flattened pillows. But sternness
      was a part of the game at this moment. He solemnly unlatched and lowered
      the tall sides of the cribs.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stood in the middle of the room, with a gesture of command. &ldquo;Quiet
      now,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Quiet, until I tell you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yelpers could not help a small whine of intense emotion, which slipped out
      unintended. The eyes of Groups and Bunks swivelled angrily toward their
      unlucky brother. It was his failing: in crises he always emitted haphazard
      sounds. But this time Gissing, with lenient forgiveness, pretended not to
      have heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      He returned to the balcony, and reentered his couch, where he lay feigning
      sleep. In the nursery was a terrific stillness.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the rule of the game that they should lie thus, in absolute quiet,
      until he uttered a huge imitation snore. Once, after a particularly
      exhausting night, he had postponed the snore too long: he fell asleep. He
      did not wake for an hour, and then found the tragic three also sprawled in
      amazing slumber. But their pillows were wet with tears. He never succumbed
      again, no matter how deeply tempted.
    </p>
    <p>
      He snored. There were three sprawling thumps, a rush of feet, and a
      tumbling squeeze through the screen door. Then they were on the couch and
      upon him, with panting yelps of glee. Their hot tongues rasped busily over
      his face. This was the great tickling game. Remembering his theory of
      conserving energy, he lay passive while they rollicked and scrambled,
      burrowing in the bedclothes, quivering imps of absurd pleasure. All that
      was necessary was to give an occasional squirm, to tweak their ribs now
      and then, so that they believed his heart was in the sport. Really he got
      quite a little rest while they were scuffling. No one knew exactly what
      was the imagined purpose of the lark&mdash;whether he was supposed to be
      trying to escape from them, or they from him. Like all the best games, it
      had not been carefully thought out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, children,&rdquo; said Gissing presently. &ldquo;Time to get dressed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was amazing how fast they were growing. Already they were beginning to
      take a pride in trying to dress themselves. While Gissing was in the
      bathroom, enjoying his cold tub (and under the stimulus of that icy sluice
      forming excellent resolutions for the day) the children were sitting on
      the nursery floor eagerly studying the intricacies of their gear. By the
      time he returned they would have half their garments on wrong; waist and
      trousers front side to rear; right shoes on left feet; buttons hopelessly
      mismated to buttonholes; shoelacings oddly zigzagged. It was far more
      trouble to permit their ambitious bungling, which must be undone and
      painstakingly reassembled, than to have clad them all himself, swiftly
      revolving and garmenting them like dolls. But in these early hours of the
      day, patience still is robust. It was his pedagogy to encourage their
      innocent initiatives, so long as endurance might permit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Best of all, he enjoyed watching them clean their teeth. It was delicious
      to see them, tiptoe on their hind legs at the basin, to which their noses
      just reached; mouths gaping wide as they scrubbed with very small
      toothbrushes. They were so elated by squeezing out the toothpaste from the
      tube that he had not the heart to refuse them this privilege, though it
      was wasteful. For they always squeezed out more than necessary, and after
      a moment's brushing their mouths became choked and clotted with the
      pungent foam. Much of this they swallowed, for he had not been able to
      teach them to rinse and gargle. Their only idea regarding any fluid in the
      mouth was to swallow it; so they coughed and strangled and barked. Gissing
      had a theory that this toothpaste foam most be an appetizer, for he found
      that the more of it they swallowed, the better they ate their breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      After breakfast he hurried them out into the garden, before the day became
      too hot. As he put a new lot of prunes to soak in cold water, he could not
      help reflecting how different the kitchen and pantry looked from the time
      of Fuji. The ice-box pan seemed to be continually brimming over. Somehow&mdash;due,
      he feared, to a laxity on Mrs. Spaniel's part&mdash;ants had got in. He
      was always finding them inside the ice-box, and wondered where they came
      from. He was amazed to find how negligent he was growing about pots and
      pans: he began cooking a new mess of oatmeal in the double boiler without
      bothering to scrape out the too adhesive remnant of the previous porridge.
      He had come to the conclusion that children are tougher and more enduring
      than Dr. Holt will admit; and that a little carelessness in matters of
      hygiene and sterilization does not necessarily mean instant death.
    </p>
    <p>
      Truly his once dainty menage was deteriorating. He had put away his fine
      china, put away the linen napery, and laid the table with oil cloth. He
      had even improved upon Fuji's invention of scuppers by a little trough
      which ran all round the rim of the table, to catch any possible spillage.
      He was horrified to observe how inevitably callers came at the worst
      possible moment. Mr. and Mrs. Chow, for instance, drew up one afternoon in
      their spick-and-span coupe with their intolerably spotless only child
      sitting self-consciously beside them. Groups, Bunks, and Yelpers were just
      then filling the garden with horrid clamour. They had been quarrelling,
      and one had pushed the other two down the back steps. Gissing, who had
      attempted to find a quiet moment to scald the ants out of the ice-box, had
      just rushed forth and boxed them all. As he stood there, angry and waving
      a steaming dishclout, two Chows appeared. The puppies at once set upon
      little Sandy Chow, and had thoroughly mauled his starched sailor suit in
      the driveway before two minutes were past. Gissing could not help
      laughing, for he suspected that there had been a touch of malice in the
      Chows coming just at that time.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had given up his flower garden, too. It was all he could do to shove
      the lawn-mower around, in the dusk, after the puppies were in bed.
      Formerly he had found the purr of the twirling blades a soothing stimulus
      to thought; but nowadays he could not even think consecutively. Perhaps,
      he thought, the residence of the mind is in the legs, not in the head; for
      when your legs are thoroughly weary you can't seem to think.
    </p>
    <p>
      So he had decided that he simply must have more help in the cooking and
      housework. He had instructed Mrs. Spaniel to send the washing to the
      steam-laundry, and spend her three days in the kitchen instead. A huge
      bundle had come back from the laundry, and he had paid the driver $15.98.
      With dismay he sorted the clean, neatly folded garments. Here was the
      worthy Mrs. Spaniel's list, painstakingly written out in her straggling
      script:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     MR. GISHING FAMILY WOSH

     8 towls
     6 pymjarm Mr Gishing
     12 rompers
     3 blowses
     6 cribb sheets
     1 Mr. Gishing sheat
     4 wastes
     3 wosh clothes
     2 onion sutes Mr Gishing
     6 smal onion sutes
     4 pillo slipes
     3 sherts
     18 hankerchifs smal
     6 hankerchifs large
     8 colers
     3 overhauls
     10 bibbs
     2 table clothes (coca stane)
     1 table clothe (prun juce and eg)
</pre>
    <p>
      After contemplating this list, Gissing went to his desk and began to study
      his accounts. A resolve was forming in his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIVE
    </h2>
    <p>
      The summer evenings sounded a very different music from that thin
      wheedling of April. It was now a soft steady vibration, the incessant
      drone and throb of locust and cricket, and sometimes the sudden rasp, dry
      and hard, of katydids. Gissing, in spite of his weariness, was all
      fidgets. He would walk round and round the house in the dark, unable to
      settle down to anything; tired, but incapable of rest. What is this
      uneasiness in the mind, he asked himself? The great sonorous drumming of
      the summer night was like the bruit of Time passing steadily by. Even in
      the soft eddy of the leaves, lifted on a drowsy creeping air, was a sound
      of discontent, of troublesome questioning. Through the trees he could see
      the lighted oblongs of neighbours' windows, or hear stridulent jazz
      records. Why were all others so cheerfully absorbed in the minutiae of
      their lives, and he so painfully ill at ease? Sometimes, under the warm
      clear darkness, the noises of field and earth swelled to a kind of soft
      thunder: his quickened ears heard a thousand small outcries contributing
      to the awful energy of the world&mdash;faint chimings and whistlings in
      the grass, and endless flutter, rustle, and whirr. His own body, on which
      hair and nails grew daily like vegetation, startled and appalled him.
      Consciousness of self, that miserable ecstasy, was heavy upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He envied the children, who lay upstairs sprawled under their mosquito
      nettings. Immersed in living, how happily unaware of being alive! He saw,
      with tenderness, how naively they looked to him as the answer and solution
      of their mimic problems. But where could he find someone to be to him what
      he was to them? The truth apparently was that in his inward mind he was
      desperately lonely. Reading the poets by fits and starts, he suddenly
      realized that in their divine pages moved something of this loneliness,
      this exquisite unhappiness. But these great hearts had had the consolation
      of setting down their moods in beautiful words, words that lived and
      spoke. His own strange fever burned inexpressibly inside him. Was he the
      only one who felt the challenge offered by the maddening fertility and
      foison of the hot sun-dazzled earth? Life, he realized, was too amazing to
      be frittered out in this aimless sickness of heart. There were truths and
      wonders to be grasped, if he could only throw off this wistful vague
      desire. He felt like a clumsy strummer seated at a dark shining grand
      piano, which he knows is capable of every glory of rolling music, yet he
      can only elicit a few haphazard chords.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had his moments of arrogance, too. Ah, he was very young! This miracle
      of blue unblemished sky that had baffled all others since life began&mdash;he,
      he would unriddle it! He was inclined to sneer at his friends who took
      these things for granted, and did not perceive the infamous insolubility
      of the whole scheme. Remembering the promises made at the christening, he
      took the children to church; but alas, carefully analyzing his mind, he
      admitted that his attention had been chiefly occupied with keeping them
      orderly, and he had gone through the service almost automatically. Only in
      singing hymns did he experience a tingle of exalted feeling. But Mr.
      Poodle was proud of his well-trained choir, and Gissing had a feeling that
      the congregation was not supposed to do more than murmur the verses, for
      fear of spoiling the effect. In his favourite hymns he had a tendency to
      forget himself and let go: his vigorous tenor rang lustily. Then he
      realized that the backs of people's heads looked surprised. The children
      could not be kept quiet unless they stood up on the pews. Mr. Poodle
      preached rather a long sermon, and Yelpers, toward twelve-thirty, remarked
      in a clear tone of interested inquiry, &ldquo;What time does God have dinner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing had a painful feeling that he and Mr. Poodle did not thoroughly
      understand each other. The curate, who was kindness itself, called one
      evening, and they had a friendly chat. Gissing was pleased to find that
      Mr. Poodle enjoyed a cigar, and after some hesitation ventured to suggest
      that he still had something in the cellar. Mr. Poodle said that he didn't
      care for anything, but his host could not help hearing the curate's tail
      quite unconsciously thumping on the chair cushions. So he excused himself
      and brought up one of his few remaining bottles of White Horse. Mr. Poodle
      crossed his legs and they chatted about golf, politics, the income tax,
      and some of the recent books; but when Gissing turned the talk on
      religion, Mr. Poodle became diffident.. Gissing, warmed and cheered by the
      vital Scotch, was perhaps too direct.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What ought I to do to 'crucify the old man'?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Poodle was rather embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must mortify the desires of the flesh,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;You must dig up
      the old bone of sin that is buried in all our hearts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There were many more questions Gissing wanted to ask about this, but Mr.
      Poodle said he really must be going, as he had a call to pay on Mr. and
      Mrs. Chow.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing walked down the path with him, and the curate did indeed set off
      toward the Chows'. But Gissing wondered, for a little later he heard a
      cheerful canticle upraised in the open fields.
    </p>
    <p>
      He himself was far from gay. He longed to tear out this malady from his
      breast. Poor dreamer, he did not know that to do so is to tear out God
      Himself. &ldquo;Mrs. Spaniel,&rdquo; he said when the laundress next came up from the
      village, &ldquo;you are a widow, aren't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Poor Spaniel was killed by a truck, two years ago
      April.&rdquo; Her face was puzzled, but beneath her apron Gissing could see her
      tail wagging.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't misunderstand me,&rdquo; he said quickly. &ldquo;I've got to go away on
      business. I want you to bring your children and move into this house while
      I'm gone. I'll make arrangements at the bank about paying all the bills.
      You can give up your outside washing and devote yourself entirely to
      looking after this place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Spaniel was so much surprised that she could not speak. In her
      amazement a bright bubble dripped from the end of her curly tongue.
      Hastily she caught it in her apron, and apologized.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long will you be away, sir?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know. It may be quite a long time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But all your beautiful things, furniture and everything,&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Spaniel. &ldquo;I'm afraid my children are a bit rough. They're not used to
      living in a house like this&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Gissing, &ldquo;you must do the best you can. There are some things
      more important than furniture. It will be good for your children to get
      accustomed to refined surroundings, and it'll be good for my nephews to
      have someone to play with. Besides, I don't want them to grow up spoiled
      mollycoddles. I think I've been fussing over them too much. If they have
      good stuff in them, a little roughening won't do any permanent harm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Spaniel, &ldquo;what will the neighbours think?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They won't,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;I don't doubt they'll talk, but they won't
      think. Thinking is very rare. I've got to do some myself, that's one
      reason why I'm going. You know, Mrs. Spaniel, God is a horizon, not
      someone sitting on a throne.&rdquo; Mrs. Spaniel didn't understand this&mdash;in
      fact, she didn't seem to hear it. Her mind was full of the idea that she
      would simply have to have a new dress, preferably black silk, for Sundays.
      Gissing, very sagacious, had already foreseen this point. &ldquo;Let's not have
      any argument,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;I have planned everything. Here is some
      money for immediate needs. I'll speak to them at the bank, and they will
      give you a weekly allowance. I leave you here as caretaker. Later on I'll
      send you an address and you can write me how things are going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poor Mrs. Spaniel was bewildered. She came of very decent people, but
      since Spaniel took to drink, and then left her with a family to support,
      she had sunk in the world. She was wondering now how she could face it out
      with Mrs. Chow and Mrs. Fox-Terrier and the other neighbours.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, dear,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I don't know what to say, sir. Why, my boys are so
      disreputable-looking, they haven't even a collar between them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get them collars and anything else they need,&rdquo; said Gissing kindly.
      &ldquo;Don't worry, Mrs. Spaniel, it will be a fine thing for you. There will be
      a little gossip, I dare say, but we'll have to chance that. Now you had
      better go down to the village and make your arrangements. I'm leaving
      tonight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Late that evening, after seeing Mrs. Spaniel and her brood safely
      installed, Gissing walked to the station with his suitcase. He felt a pang
      as he lifted the mosquito nettings and kissed the cool moist noses of the
      sleeping trio. But he comforted himself by thinking that this was no
      merely vulgar desertion. If he was to raise the family, he must earn some
      money. His modest income would not suffice for this sudden increase in
      expenses. Besides, he had never known what freedom meant until it was
      curtailed. For the past three months he had lived in ceaseless attendance;
      had even slept with one ear open for the children's cries. Now he owed it
      to himself to make one great strike for peace. Wealth, he could see, was
      the answer. With money, everything was attainable: books, leisure for
      study, travel, prestige&mdash;in short, command over the physical details
      of life. He would go in for Big Business. Already he thrilled with a sense
      of power and prosperity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little house stood silent in the darkness as he went down the path.
      The night was netted with the weaving sparkle of fireflies. He stood for a
      moment, looking. Suddenly there came a frightened cry from the nursery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daddy, a keeto, a keeto!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He nearly turned to run back, but checked himself. No, Mrs. Spaniel was
      now in charge. It was up to her. Besides, he had only just enough time to
      catch the last train to the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he sat on the cinder-speckled plush of the smoker in a mood that was
      hardly revelry. &ldquo;By Jove,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;I got away just in time.
      Another month and I couldn't have done it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was midnight when he saw the lights of town, panelled in gold against a
      peacock sky. Acres and acres of blue darkness lay close-pressing upon the
      gaudy grids of light. Here one might really look at this great miracle of
      shadow and see its texture. The dulcet air drifted lazily in deep, silent
      crosstown streets. &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;here is where the blue begins.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIX
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;For students of the troubled heart
     Cities are perfect works of art.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      There is a city so tall that even the sky above her seems to have lifted
      in a cautious remove, inconceivably far. There is a city so proud, so mad,
      so beautiful and young, that even heaven has retreated, lest her placid
      purity be too nearly tempted by that brave tragic spell. In the city which
      is maddest of all, Gissing had come to search for sanity. In the city so
      strangely beautiful that she has made even poets silent, he had come to
      find a voice. In the city of glorious ostent and vanity, he had come to
      look for humility and peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      All cities are mad: but the madness is gallant. All cities are beautiful:
      but the beauty is grim. Who shall tell me the truth about this one?
      Tragic? Even so, because wherever ambitions, vanities, and follies are
      multiplied by millionfold contact, calamity is there. Noble and beautiful?
      Aye, for even folly may have the majesty of magnitude. Hasty, cruel,
      shallow? Agreed, but where in this terrene orb will you find it otherwise?
      I know all that can be said against her; and yet in her great library of
      streets, vast and various as Shakespeare, is beauty enough for a lifetime.
      O poets, why have you been so faint? Because she seems cynical and crass,
      she cries with trumpet-call to the mind of the dreamer; because she is
      riant and mad, she speaks to the grave sanity of the poet.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, in a mood perhaps too consciously lofty, Gissing was meditating. It
      was rather impudent of him to accuse the city of being mad, for he
      himself, in his glee over freedom regained, was not conspicuously sane. He
      scoured the town in high spirits, peering into shop-windows, riding on top
      of busses, going to the Zoo, taking the rickety old steamer to the Statue
      of Liberty, drinking afternoon tea at the Ritz, and all that sort of
      thing. The first three nights in town he slept in one of the little
      traffic-towers that perch on stilts up above Fifth Avenue. As a matter of
      fact, it was that one near St. Patrick's Cathedral. He had ridden up the
      Avenue in a taxi, intending to go to the Plaza (just for a bit of splurge
      after his domestic confinement). As the cab went by, he saw the
      traffic-tower, dark and empty, and thought what a pleasant place to sleep.
      So he asked the driver to let him out at the Cathedral, and after being
      sure that he was not observed, walked back to the little turret, climbed
      up the ladder, and made himself at home. He liked it so well that he
      returned there the two following nights; but he didn't sleep much, for he
      could not resist the fun of startling night-hawk taxis by suddenly
      flashing the red, green, and yellow lights at them, and seeing them stop
      in bewilderment. But after three nights he thought it best to leave. It
      would have been awkward if the police had discovered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was time to settle down and begin work. He had an uncle who was head of
      an important business far down-town; but Gissing, with the quixotry of
      youth, was determined to make his own start in the great world of
      commerce. He found a room on the top floor of a quiet brownstone house in
      the West Seventies. It was not large, and he had to go down a flight for
      his bath; the gas burner over the bed whistled; the dust was rather
      startling after the clean country; but it was cheap, and his sense of
      adventure more than compensated. Mrs. Purp, the landlady, pleased him
      greatly. She was very maternal, and urged him not to bolt his meals in
      armchair lunches. She put an ashtray in his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing sent Mrs. Spaniel a postcard with a picture of the Pennsylvania
      Station. On it he wrote Arrived safely. Hard at work. Love to the
      children. Then he went to look for a job.
    </p>
    <p>
      His ideas about business were very vague. All he knew was that he wished
      to be very wealthy and influential as soon as possible. He could have had
      much sound advice from his uncle, who was a member of the Union Kennel and
      quite a prominent dog-about-town. But Gissing had the secretive pride of
      inexperience. Moreover, he did not quite know what to say about his
      establishment in the country. That houseful of children would need some
      explaining.
    </p>
    <p>
      Those were days of brilliant heat; clear, golden, dry. The society columns
      in the papers assured him that everyone was out of town; but the Avenue
      seemed plentifully crowded with beautiful, superb creatures. Far down the
      gentle slopes of that glimmering roadway he could see the rolling stream
      of limousines, dazzles of sunlight caught on their polished flanks. A
      faint blue haze of gasoline fumes hung low in the bright warm air. This is
      the street where even the most passive are pricked by the strange lure of
      carnal dominion. Nothing less than a job on the Avenue itself would suit
      his mood, he felt.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fortune and audacity united (as they always do) to concede his desire. He
      was in the beautiful department store of Beagle and Company, one of the
      most splendid of its kind, looking at some sand-coloured spats. In an
      aisle near by he heard a commotion&mdash;nothing vulgar, but still an
      evident stir, with repressed yelps and a genteel, horrified bustle. He
      hastened to the spot, and through the crowd saw someone lying on the
      floor. An extremely beautiful sales-damsel, charmingly clad in black crepe
      de chien, was supporting the victim's head, vainly fanning him. Wealthy
      dowagers were whining in distress. Then an ambulance clanged up to a side
      door, and a stretcher was brought in. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; said Gissing to a
      female at the silk-stocking counter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of the floorwalkers&mdash;died of heat prostration,&rdquo; she said,
      looking very much upset.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;You never know what will happen next, do
      you?&rdquo; He walked away, shaking his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      He asked the elevator attendant to direct him to the offices of the firm.
      On the seventh floor, down a quiet corridor behind the bedroom suites, a
      rosewood fence barred his way. A secretary faced him inquiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish to see Mr. Beagle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Beagle senior or Mr. Beagle junior?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Youth cleaves to youth, said Gissing to himself. &ldquo;Mr. Beagle junior,&rdquo; he
      stated firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you an appointment?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      She took his ward, disappeared, and returned. &ldquo;This way, please,&rdquo; she
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Beagle senior must be very old indeed, he thought; for junior was
      distinctly grizzled. In fact (so rapidly does the mind run), Mr. Beagle
      senior must be near the age of retirement. Very likely (he said to
      himself) that will soon occur; there will be a general stepping-up among
      members of the firm, and that will be my chance. I wonder how much they
      pay a junior partner?
    </p>
    <p>
      He almost uttered this question, as Mr. Beagle junior looked at him so
      inquiringly. But he caught himself in time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon for intruding,&rdquo; said Gissing, &ldquo;but I am the new
      floorwalker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; said Mr. Beagle junior, &ldquo;but we do not need a new
      floorwalker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon again,&rdquo; said Gissing, &ldquo;but you are not au courant with
      the affairs of the store. One has just died, right by the silk-stocking
      counter. Very bad for business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the telephone rang, and Mr. Beagle seized it. He listened,
      sharply examining his caller meanwhile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; he said, as he put down the receiver. &ldquo;Well, sir, have
      you had any experience?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly of that sort,&rdquo; said Gissing; &ldquo;but I think I understand the
      requirements. The tone of the store&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will ask you to be here at four-thirty this afternoon,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Beagle. &ldquo;We have a particular routine in regard to candidates for that
      position. You will readily perceive that it is a post of some importance.
      The floorwalker is our point of social contact with patrons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing negligently dusted his shoes with a handkerchief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray do not apologize,&rdquo; he said kindly. &ldquo;I am willing to congratulate
      with you on your good fortune. It was mere hazard that I was in the store.
      To-day, of course, business will be poor. But to-morrow, I think you will
      find&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At four-thirty,&rdquo; said Mr. Beagle, a little puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      That day Gissing went without lunch. First he explored the whole building
      from top to bottom, until he knew the location of every department, and
      had the store directory firmly memorized. With almost proprietary
      tenderness he studied the shining goods and trinkets; noted approvingly
      the clerks who seemed to him specially prompt and obliging to customers;
      scowled a little at any sign of boredom or inattention. He heard the soft
      sigh of the pneumatic tubes as they received money and blew it to some
      distant coffer: this money, he thought, was already partly his. That
      square-cut creature whom he presently discerned following him was
      undoubtedly the store detective: he smiled to think what a pleasant
      anecdote this would be when he was admitted to junior partnership. Then he
      went, finally, to the special Masculine Shop on the fifth floor, where he
      bought a silk hat, a cutaway coat and waistcoat, and trousers of pearly
      stripe. He did not forget patent leather shoes, nor white spats. He
      refused&mdash;the little white linen margins which the clerk wished to
      affix to the V of his waistcoat. That, he felt, was the ultra touch which
      would spoil all. The just less than perfection, how perfect it is!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was getting late. He hurried to Penn Station where he hired one of
      those little dressing booths, and put on his regalia. His tweeds, in a
      neat package, he checked at the parcel counter. Then he returned to the
      store for the important interview.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had expected a formal talk with the two Messrs. Beagle, perhaps
      touching on such matters as duties, hours, salary, and so on. To his
      surprise he was ushered by the secretary into a charming Louis XVI salon
      farther down the private corridor. There were several ladies: one was
      pouring tea. Mr. Beagle junior came forward. The vice-president (such was
      Mr. Beagle junior's rank, Gissing had learned by the sign on his door)
      still wore his business garb of the morning. Gissing immediately felt
      himself to have the advantage. But what a pleasant idea, he thought, for
      the members of the firm to have tea together every afternoon. He handed
      his hat, gloves, and stick to the secretary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very kind of you to come,&rdquo; said Mr. Beagle. &ldquo;Let me present you to my
      wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Beagle, at the tea-urn, received him graciously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cream or lemon?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Two lumps?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This is really delightful, Gissing thought. Only on Fifth Avenue could
      this kind of thing happen. He looked down the hostess from his superior
      height, and smiled charmingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you permit three?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;A little weakness of mine.&rdquo; As a matter
      of fact, he hated tea so sweet; but he felt it was strategic to fix
      himself in Mrs. Beagle's mind as a polished eccentric.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have a meringue,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Ah, Mrs. Pomeranian has them. Mrs.
      Pomeranian, let me present Mr. Gissing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Pomeranian, small and plump and tightly corseted, offered the
      meringues, while Mrs. Beagle pressed upon him a plate with a small doily,
      embroidered with the arms of the store, and its motto je maintiendrai&mdash;referring,
      no doubt, to its prices. Mr. Beagle then introduced him to several more
      ladies in rapid succession. Gissing passed along the line, bowing slightly
      but with courteous interest to each. To each one he raised his eyebrows
      and permitted himself a small significant smile, as though to convey that
      this was a moment he had long been anticipating. How different, he
      thought, was this life of enigmatic gaiety from the suburban drudgery of
      recent months. If only Mrs. Spaniel could see him now! He was about to
      utilize a brief pause by sipping his tea, when a white-headed patriarch
      suddenly appeared beside him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Gissing,&rdquo; said the vice-president, &ldquo;this is my father, Mr. Beagle
      senior.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing, by quick work, shuffled the teacup into his left paw, and the
      meringue plate into the crook of his elbow, so he was ready for the old
      gentleman's salutation. Mr. Beagle senior was indeed very old: his white
      hair hung over his eyes, he spoke with growling severity. Gissing's manner
      to the old merchant was one of respectful reassurance: he attempted to
      make an impression that would console: to impart&mdash;of course without
      saying so&mdash;the thought that though the head of the firm could not
      last much longer, yet he would leave his great traffic in capable care.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where will I find an aluminum cooking pot?&rdquo; growled the elder Beagle
      unexpectedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the Bargain Basement,&rdquo; said Gissing promptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He'll do!&rdquo; cried the president.
    </p>
    <p>
      To his surprise, on looking round, Gissing saw that all the ladies had
      vanished. Beagle junior was grinning at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have the job, Mr. Gissing,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You will pardon the harmless
      masquerade&mdash;we always try out a floorwalker in that way. My father
      thinks that if he can handle a teacup and a meringue while being
      introduced to ladies, he can manage anything on the main aisle downstairs.
      Mrs. Pomeranian, our millinery buyer, said she had never seen it better
      done, and she mixes with some of the swellest people in Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nine to six, with half an hour off for lunch,&rdquo; said the senior partner,
      and left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing calmly swallowed his tea, and ate the meringue. He would have
      enjoyed another, but the capable secretary had already removed them. He
      poured himself a second cup of tea. Mr. Beagle junior showed signs of
      eagerness to leave, but Gissing detained him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One moment,&rdquo; he said suavely. &ldquo;There is a little matter that we have not
      discussed. The question of salary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Beagle looked thoughtfully out of the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty dollars a week,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      After all, Gissing thought, it will only take four weeks to pay for what I
      have spent on clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      There was some dramatic nerve in Gissing's nature that responded
      eloquently to the floorwalking job. Never, in the history of Beagle and
      Company, had there been a floorwalker who threw so much passion and zeal
      into his task. The very hang of his coattails, even the erect carriage of
      his back, the rubbery way in which his feet trod the aisles, showed his
      sense of dignity and glamour. There seemed to be a great tradition which
      enriched and upheld him. Mr. Beagle senior used to stand on the little
      balcony at the rear of the main floor, transfixed with the pleasure of
      seeing Gissing move among the crowded passages. Alert, watchful, urbane,
      with just the ideal blend of courtesy and condescension, he raised
      floorwalking to a social art. Female customers asked him the way to
      departments they knew perfectly well, for the pleasure of hearing him
      direct them. Business began to improve before he had been there a week.
    </p>
    <p>
      And how he enjoyed himself! The perfection of his bearing on the floor was
      no careful pose: it was due to the brimming overplus of his happiness.
      Happiness is surely the best teacher of good manners: only the unhappy are
      churlish in deportment. He was young, remember; and this was his first
      job. His precocious experience as a paterfamilias had added to his mien
      just that suggestion of unconscious gravity which is so appealing to
      ladies. He looked (they thought) as though he had been touched&mdash;but
      Oh so lightly!&mdash;by poetic sorrow or strange experience: to ask him
      the way to the notion counter was as much of an adventure as to meet a
      reigning actor at a tea. The faint cloud of melancholy that shadowed his
      brow may have been only due to the fact that his new boots were pinching
      painfully; but they did not know that.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, quite unconsciously, he began to &ldquo;establish&rdquo; himself in his role, just
      as an actor does. At first he felt his way tentatively and with tact.
      Every store has its own tone and atmosphere: in a day or so he divined the
      characteristic cachet of the Beagle establishment. He saw what kind of
      customers were typical, and what sort of conduct they expected. And the
      secret of conquest being always to give people a little more than they
      expect, he pursued that course. Since they expected in a floorwalker the
      mechanical and servile gentility of a hired puppet, he exhibited the easy,
      offhand simplicity of a fellow club-member. With perfect naturalness he
      went out of his way to assist in their shopping concerns: gave advice in
      the selection of dress materials, acted as arbiter in the matching of
      frocks and stockings. His taste being faultless, it often happened that
      the things he recommended were not the most expensive: this again endeared
      him to customers. When sales slips were brought to him by ladies who
      wished to make an exchange, he affixed his O. K. with a magnificent
      flourish, and with such evident pleasure, that patrons felt genuine
      elation, and plunged into the tumult with new enthusiasm. It was not long
      before there were always people waiting for his counsel; and husbands
      would appear at the store to convey (a little irritably) some such message
      as: &ldquo;Mrs. Sealyham says, please choose her a scarf that will go nicely
      with that brown moire dress of hers. She says you will remember the
      dress.&rdquo;&mdash;This popularity became even a bit perplexing, as for
      instance when old Mrs. Dachshund, the store's biggest Charge Account,
      insisted on his leaving his beat at a very busy time, to go up to the
      tenth floor to tell her which piano he thought had the richer tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course all this was very entertaining, and an admirable opportunity for
      studying his fellow-creatures; but it did not go very deep into his mind.
      He lived for some time in a confused glamour and glitter; surrounded by
      the fascinating specious life of the store, but drifting merely
      superficially upon it. The great place, with its columns of artificial
      marble and white censers of upward-shining electricity, glimmered like a
      birch forest by moonlight. Silver and jewels and silks and slippers
      flashed all about him. It was a marvellous education, for he soon learned
      to estimate these things at their proper value; which is low, for they
      have little to do with life itself. His work was tiring in the extreme&mdash;merely
      having to remain upright on his hind legs for such long hours WAS an
      ordeal&mdash;but it did not penetrate to the secret observant self of
      which he was always aware. This was advantageous. If you have no
      intellect, or only just enough to get along with, it does not much matter
      what you do. But if you really have a mind&mdash;by which is meant that
      rare and curious power of reason, of imagination, and of emotion; very
      different from a mere fertility of conversation and intelligent curiosity&mdash;it
      is better not to weary and wear it out over trifles.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, when he left the store in the evening, no matter how his legs ached,
      his head was clear and untarnished. He did not hurry away at closing time.
      Places where people work are particularly fascinating after the bustle is
      over. He loved to linger in the long aisles, to see the tumbled counters
      being swiftly brought to order, to hear the pungent cynicisms of the weary
      shopgirls. To these, by the way, he was a bit of a mystery. The punctilio
      of his manner, the extreme courtliness of his remarks, embarrassed them a
      little. Behind his back they spoke of him as &ldquo;The Duke&rdquo; and admired him
      hugely; little Miss Whippet, at the stocking counter, said that he was an
      English noble of long pedigree, who had been unjustly deprived of his
      estates.
    </p>
    <p>
      Down in the basement of this palatial store was a little dressing room and
      lavatory for the floorwalkers, where they doffed their formal raiment and
      resumed street attire. His colleagues grumbled and hastened to depart, but
      Gissing made himself entirely comfortable. In his locker he kept a baby's
      bathtub, which he leisurely filled with hot water at one of the basins.
      Then he sat serenely and bathed his feet; although it was against the
      rules he often managed to smoke a pipe while doing so. Then he hung up his
      store clothes neatly, and went off refreshed into the summer evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      A warm rosy light floods the city at that hour. At the foot of every
      crosstown street is a bonfire of sunset. What a mood of secret smiling
      beset him as he viewed the great territory of his enjoyment. &ldquo;The freedom
      of the city&rdquo;&mdash;a phrase he had somewhere heard&mdash;echoed in his
      mind. The freedom of the city! A magnificent saying, Electric signs, first
      burning wanly in the pink air, then brightened and grew strong. &ldquo;Not
      light, but rather darkness visible,&rdquo; in that magic hour that just holds
      the balance between paling day and the spendthrift jewellery of evening.
      Or, if it rained, to sit blithely on the roof of a bus, revelling in the
      gust and whipping of the shower. Why had no one told him of the glory of
      the city? She was pride, she was exultation, she was madness. She was what
      he had obscurely craved. In every line of her gallant profile he saw
      conquest, triumph, victory! Empty conquest, futile triumph, doomed victory&mdash;but
      that was the essence of the drama. In thunderclaps of dumb ecstasy he saw
      her whole gigantic fabric, leaning and clamouring upward with terrible
      yearning. Burnt with pitiless sunlight, drenched with purple explosions of
      summer storm, he saw her cleansed and pure. Where were her recreant poets
      that they had never made these things plain?
    </p>
    <p>
      And then, after the senseless day, after its happy but meaningless
      triviality, the throng and mixed perfumery and silly courteous gestures,
      his blessed solitude! Oh solitude, that noble peace of the mind! He loved
      the throng and multitude of the day: he loved people: but sometimes he
      suspected that he loved them as God does&mdash;at a judicious distance.
      From his rather haphazard religious training, strange words came back to
      him. &ldquo;For God so loved the world...&rdquo; So loved the world that&mdash;that
      what? That He sent someone else... Some day he must think this out. But
      you can't think things out. They think themselves, suddenly, amazingly.
      The city itself is God, he cried. Was not God's ultimate promise something
      about a city&mdash;The City of God? Well, but that was only symbolic
      language. The city&mdash;of course that was only a symbol for the race&mdash;for
      all his kind. The entire species, the whole aspiration and passion and
      struggle, that was God.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the ferries, at night, after supper, was his favourite place for
      meditation. Some undeniable instinct drew him ever and again out of the
      deep and shut ravines of stone, to places where he could feed on distance.
      That is one of the subtleties of this straight and narrow city, that
      though her ways are cliffed in, they are a long thoroughfare for the eye:
      there is always a far perspective. But best of all to go down to her
      environing water, where spaces are wide: the openness that keeps her sound
      and free. Ships had words for him: they had crossed many horizons:
      fragments of that broken blue still shone on their cutting bows. Ferries,
      the most poetical things in the city, were nearly empty at night: he stood
      by the rail, saw the black outline of the town slide by, saw the lower sky
      gilded with her merriment, and was busy thinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now about a God (he said to himself)&mdash;instinct tells me that there is
      one, for when I think about Him I find that I unconsciously wag my tail a
      little. But I must not reason on that basis, which is too puppyish. I like
      to think that there is, somewhere in this universe, an inscrutable Being
      of infinite wisdom, harmony, and charity, by Whom all my desires and needs
      would be understood; in association with Whom I would find peace,
      satisfaction, a lightness of heart that exceed my present understanding.
      Such a Being is to me quite inconceivable; yet I feel that if I met Him, I
      would instantly understand. I do not mean that I would understand Him: but
      I would understand my relationship to Him, which would be perfect. Nor do
      I mean that it would be always happy; merely that it would transcend
      anything in the way of social significance that I now experience. But I
      must not conclude that there is such a God, merely because it would be so
      pleasant if there were.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then (he continued) is it necessary to conceive that this deity is
      super-canine in essence? What I am getting at is this: in everyone I have
      ever known&mdash;Fuji, Mr. Poodle, Mrs. Spaniel, those maddening
      delightful puppies, Mrs. Purp, Mr. Beagle, even Mrs. Chow and Mrs.
      Sealyham and little Miss Whippet&mdash;I have always been aware that there
      was some mysterious point of union at which our minds could converge and
      entirely understand one another. No matter what our difference of breed,
      of training, of experience and education, provided we could meet and
      exchange ideas honestly there would be some satisfying point of mental
      fusion where we would feel our solidarity in the common mystery of life.
      People complain that wars are caused by and fought over trivial things.
      Why, of course! For it is only in trivial matters that people differ: in
      the deep realities they must necessarily be at one. Now I have a suspicion
      that in this secret sense of unity God may lurk. Is that what we mean by
      God, the sum total of all these instinctive understandings? But what is
      the origin of this sense of kinship? Is it not the realization of our
      common subjection to laws and forces greater than ourselves? Then, since
      nothing can be greater than God, He must BE these superior mysteries. Yet
      He cannot be greater than our minds, for our minds have imagined Him.
    </p>
    <p>
      My mathematics is very rusty, he said to himself, but I seem to remember
      something about a locus, which was a curve or a surface every point on
      which satisfied some particular equation of relation among the
      coordinates. It begins to look to me as though life might be a kind of
      locus, whose commanding equation we call God. The points on that locus
      cannot conceive of the equation, yet they are subject to it. They cannot
      conceive of that equation, because of course it has no existence save as a
      law of their being. It exists only for them; they, only by it. But there
      it is&mdash;a perfect, potent, divine abstraction.
    </p>
    <p>
      This carried him into a realm of disembodied thinking which his mind was
      not sufficiently disciplined to summarize. It is quite plain, he said to
      himself, that I must rub up my vanished mathematics. For certainly the
      mathematician comes closer to God than any other, since his mind is
      trained to conceive and formulate the magnificent phantoms of legality. He
      smiled to think that any one should presume to become a parson without
      having at least mastered analytical geometry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ferry had crossed and recrossed the river several times, but Gissing
      had found no conclusion for these thoughts. As the boat drew toward her
      slip, she passed astern of a great liner. Gissing saw the four tall
      funnels loom up above the shed of the pier where she lay berthed. What was
      it that made his heart so stir? The perfect rake of the funnels&mdash;just
      that satisfying angle of slant&mdash;that, absurdly enough, was the
      nobility of the sight. Why, then? Let's get at the heart of this, he said.
      Just that little trick of the architect, useless in itself&mdash;what was
      it but the touch of swagger, of bravado, of defiance&mdash;going out into
      the vast, meaningless, unpitying sea with that dainty arrogance of build;
      taking the trouble to mock the senseless elements, hurricane, ice, and
      fog, with a 15-degree slope of masts and funnels: damn, what was the
      analogy?
    </p>
    <p>
      It was pride, it was pride! It was the same lusty impudence that he saw in
      his perfect city, the city that cried out to the hearts of youth, jutted
      her mocking pinnacles toward sky, her clumsy turrets verticalled on gold!
      And God, the God of gales and gravity, loved His children to dare and
      contradict Him, to rally Him with equations of their own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God, I defy you!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER EIGHT
    </h2>
    <p>
      Time is a flowing river. Happy those who allow themselves to be carried,
      unresisting, with the current. They float through easy days. They live,
      unquestioning, in the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Gissing was acutely conscious of Time. Though not subtle enough to
      analyze the matter acutely, he had a troublesome feeling about it. He kept
      checking off a series of Nows. &ldquo;Now I am having my bath,&rdquo; he would say to
      himself in the morning. &ldquo;Now I am dressing. Now I am on the way to the
      store. Now I am in the jewellery aisle, being polite to customers. Now I
      am having lunch.&rdquo; After a period in which time ran by unnoticed, he would
      suddenly realize a fresh Now, and feel uneasy at the knowledge that it
      would shortly dissolve into another one. He tried, vainly, to swim
      up-stream against the smooth impalpable fatal current. He tried to dam up
      Time, to deepen the stream so that he could bathe in it carelessly. Time,
      he said, is life; and life is God; time, then, is little bits of God.
      Those who waste their time in vulgarity or folly are the true atheists.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the things that struck him about the city was its heedlessness of
      Time. On every side he saw people spending it without adequate return.
      Perhaps he was young and doctrinaire: but he devised this theory for
      himself&mdash;all time is wasted that does not give you some awareness of
      beauty or wonder. In other words, &ldquo;the days that make us happy make us
      wise,&rdquo; he said to himself, quoting Masefield's line. On that principle, he
      asked, how much time is wasted in this city? Well, here are some six
      million people. To simplify the problem (which is permitted to every
      philosopher) let us (he said) assume that 2,350,000 of those people have
      spent a day that could be called, on the whole, happy: a day in which they
      have had glimpses of reality; a day in which they feel satisfaction. (That
      was, he felt, a generous allowance. ) Very well, then, that leaves
      3,650,000 people whose day has been unfruitful: spent in uncongenial work,
      or in sorrow, suffering, and talking nonsense. This city, then, in one
      day, has wasted 10,000 years, or 100 centuries. One hundred centuries
      squandered in a day! It made him feel quite ill, and he tore up the scrap
      of paper on which he had been figuring.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a new, disconcerting way to think of the subject. We are
      accustomed to consider Time only as it applies to ourselves, forgetting
      that it is working upon everyone else simultaneously. Why, he thought with
      a sudden shock, if only 36,500 people in this city have had a thoroughly
      spendthrift and useless day, that means a net loss of a century! If the
      War, he said to himself, lasted over 1,500 days and involved more than
      10,000,000 men, how many aeons&mdash;He used to think about these things
      during quiet evenings in the top-floor room at Mrs. Purp's. Occasionally
      he went home at night still wearing his store clothes, because it pleased
      good Mrs. Purp so much. She felt that it added glamour to her house to
      have him do so, and always called her husband, a frightened silent
      creature with no collar and a humble air, up from the basement to admire.
      Mr. Purp's time, Gissing suspected, was irretrievably wasted&mdash;a good
      deal of it, to judge by his dusty appearance, in rolling around in ashcans
      or in the company of the neighbourhood bootlegger; but then, he reflected,
      in a charitable seizure, you must not judge other people's time-spendings
      by a calculus of your own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps he himself was growing a little miserly in this matter. Indulging
      in the rare, the sovereign luxury of thinking, he had suddenly become
      aware of time's precious fluency, and wondered why everyone else didn't
      think about it as passionately as he did. In the privacy of his room,
      weary after the day afoot, he took off his cutaway coat and trousers and
      enjoyed his old habit of stretching out on the floor for a good rest.
      There he would lie, not asleep, but in a bliss of passive meditation. He
      even grudged Mrs. Purp the little chats she loved&mdash;she made a point
      of coming up with clean towels when she knew he was in his room, because
      she cherished hearing him talk. When he heard her knock, he had to
      scramble hastily to his feet, get on his clothes, and pretend he had been
      sitting calmly in the rocking chair. It would never do to let her find him
      sprawled on the floor. She had an almost painful respect for him. Once,
      when prospective lodgers were bargaining for rooms, and he happened to be
      wearing his Beagle and Company attire, she had asked him to do her the
      favour of walking down the stairs, so that the visitors might be impressed
      by the gentility of the establishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of course he loved to waste time&mdash;but in his own way. He gloated on
      the irresponsible vacancy of those evening hours, when there was nothing
      to be done. He lay very still, hardly even thinking, just feeling life go
      by. Through the open window came the lights and noises of the street.
      Already his domestic life seemed dim and far away. The shrill appeals of
      the puppies, their appalling innocent comments on existence, came but
      faintly to memory. Here, where life beat so much more thickly and closely,
      was the place to be. Though he had solved nothing, yet he seemed closer to
      the heart of the mystery. Entranced, he felt time flowing on toward him,
      endless in sweep and fulness. There is only one success, he said to
      himself&mdash;to be able to spend your life in your own way, and not to
      give others absurd maddening claims upon it. Youth, youth is the only
      wealth, for youth has Time in its purse!
    </p>
    <p>
      In the store, however, philosophy was laid aside. A kind of intoxication
      possessed him. Never before had old Mr. Beagle (watching delightedly from
      the mezzanine balcony) seen such a floorwalker. Gissing moved to and fro
      exulting in the great tide of shopping. He knew all the best customers by
      name and had learned their peculiarities. If a shower came up and Mrs.
      Mastiff was just leaving, he hastened to give her his arm as far as her
      limousine, boosting her in so expeditiously that not a drop of wetness
      fell upon her. He took care to find out the special plat du jour of the
      store's lunch room, and seized occasion to whisper to Mrs. Dachshund,
      whose weakness was food, that the filet of sole was very nice to-day. Mrs.
      Pomeranian learned that giving Gissing a hint about some new Parisian
      importations was more effective than a half page ad. in the Sunday papers.
      Within a few hours, by a judicious word here and there, he would have a
      score of ladies hastening to the millinery salon. A pearl necklace of
      great value, which Mr. Beagle had rebuked the jewellery buyer for getting,
      because it seemed more appropriate for a dealer in precious stones than
      for a department store, was disposed of almost at once. Gissing casually
      told Mrs. Mastiff that he had heard Mrs. Sealyham intended to buy it. As
      for Mrs. Dachshund, who had had a habit of lunching at Delmonico's, she
      now was to be seen taking tiffin at Beagle's almost daily. There were many
      husbands who would have been glad to shoot him at sight on the first of
      the month, had they known who was the real cause of their woe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, Gissing had raised floorwalking to a new level. He was more prime
      minister than a mere patroller of aisles. With sparkling eye, with
      unending curiosity, tact, and attention, he moved quietly among the
      throng. He realized that shopping is the female paradise; that spending
      money she has not earned is the only real fun an elderly and wealthy lady
      can have; and if to this primitive shopping passion can be added the
      delights of social amenity&mdash;flattery, courtesy, good-humoured
      flirtation&mdash;the snare is complete.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all this is not accomplished without rousing the jealousy of rivals.
      Among the other floorwalkers, and particularly in the gorgeously uniformed
      attendant at the front door (who was outraged by Gissing's habit of
      escorting special customers to their motors) moved anger, envy, and
      sneers. Gissing, completely absorbed in the fascination of his work, was
      unaware of this hostility, as he was equally unaware of the amazed
      satisfaction of his employer. He went his way with naive and unconscious
      pleasure. It did not take long for his enemies to find a fulcrum for their
      chagrin. One evening, after closing, when he sat in the dressing room,
      with his feet in the usual tub of hot water, placidly reviewing the day's
      excitements and smoking his pipe, the superintendent burst in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Don't you know smoking's forbidden? What do you want
      to do, get our fire insurance cancelled? Get out of here! You're fired!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It did not occur to Gissing to question or protest. He had known perfectly
      well that smoking was not allowed. But he was like the stage hand behind
      the scenes who concluded it was all right to light a cigarette because the
      sign only said SMOKING FORBIDDEN, instead of SMOKING STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.
      He had not troubled his mind about it, one way or about it, one way or
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had drawn his salary that evening, and his first thought was, Well, at
      any rate I've earned enough to pay for the clothes. He had been there
      exactly four weeks. Quite calmly, he lifted his feet out of the tub and
      began to towel them daintily. The meticulous way he dried between his toes
      was infuriating to the superintendent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you any children?&rdquo; Gissing asked, mildly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's that to you?&rdquo; snapped the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll sell you this bathtub for a quarter. Take it home to them. They
      probably need it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You get out of here!&rdquo; cried the angry official.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'd be surprised,&rdquo; said Gissing, &ldquo;how children thrive when they're
      bathed regularly. Believe me, I know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He packed his formal clothes in a neat bundle, left the bathtub behind,
      surrendered his locker key, and walked toward the employees' door,
      escorted by his bristling superior. As they passed through the empty
      aisles, scene of his brief triumph, he could not help gazing a little
      sadly. True merchant to the last, a thought struck him. He scribbled a
      note on the back of a sales slip and left it at Miss Whippet's post by the
      stocking counter. It said:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      MISS WHIPPET: Show Mrs. Sealyham some of the bisque sports hose, Scotch
      wool, size 9. She's coming to-morrow. Don't let her get size 8 1/2. They
      shrink.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           MR. GISSING.
</pre>
    <p>
      At the door he paused, relit his pipe leisurely, raised his hat to the
      superintendent, and strolled away.
    </p>
    <p>
      In spite of this nonchalance, the situation was serious. His money was at
      a low ebb. All his regular income was diverted to the support of the large
      household in the country. He was too proud to appeal to his wealthy uncle.
      He hated also to think of Mrs. Purp's mortification if she learned that
      her star boarder was out of work. By a curious irony, when he got home he
      found a letter from Mrs. Spaniel:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. GISHING, dere friend, the pupeys are well, no insecks, and eat with
      nives and forx Groups is the fattest but Yelpers is the lowdest they send
      wags and lix and glad to here Daddy is doing so well in buisness with
      respects from
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              MRS. SPANIEL.
</pre>
    <p>
      He did not let Mrs. Purp know of the change in his condition, and every
      morning left his lodging at the usual time. By some curious attraction he
      felt drawn to that downtown region where his kinsman's office was. This
      part of the city he had not properly explored.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a world wholly different from Fifth Avenue. There was none of that
      sense of space and luxury he had known on the wide slopes of Murray Hill.
      He wandered under terrific buildings, in a breezy shadow where javelins of
      colourless sunlight pierced through thin slits, hot brilliance fell in
      fans and cascades over the uneven terrace of roofs. Here was where
      husbands worked to keep Fifth Avenue going: he wondered vaguely whether
      Mrs. Sealyham had bought those stockings? One day he saw his uncle
      hurrying along Wall Street with an intent face. Gissing skipped into a
      doorway, fearing to be recognized. He knew that the old fellow would
      insist on taking him to lunch at the Pedigree Club, would talk endlessly,
      and ask family questions. But he was on the scent of matters that talk
      could not pursue.
    </p>
    <p>
      He perceived a sense of pressure, of prodigious poetry and beauty and
      amazement. This was a strange jungle of life. Tall coasts of windows stood
      up into the pure brilliant sky: against their feet beat a dark surf of
      slums. In one foreign street, too deeply trenched for sunlight, oranges
      were the only gold. The water, reaching round in two arms, came close:
      there was a note of husky summons in the whistles of passing craft. Almost
      everywhere, sharp above many smells of oils and spices, the whiff of
      coffee tingled his busy nose. Above one huge precipice stood a gilded
      statue&mdash;a boy with wings, burning in the noon. Brilliance flamed
      between the vanes of his pinions: the intangible thrust of that pouring
      light seemed about to hover him off into blue air.
    </p>
    <p>
      The world of working husbands was more tender than that of shopping wives:
      even in all their business, they had left space and quietness for the
      dead. Sunken among the crags he found two graveyards. They were cups of
      placid brightness. Here, looking upward, it was like being drowned on the
      floor of an ocean of light. Husbands had built their offices half-way to
      the sky rather than disturb these. Perhaps they appreciate rest all the
      more, Gissing thought, because they get so little of it? Somehow he could
      not quite imagine a graveyard left at peace in the shopping district. It
      would be bad for trade, perhaps? Even the churches on the Avenue, he had
      noticed, were huddled up and hemmed in so tightly by the other buildings
      that they had scarcely room to kneel. If I ever become a parson, he said
      (this was a fantastic dream of his), I will insist that all churches must
      have a girdle of green about them, to set them apart from the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two little brown churches among the cliffs had been gifted with a
      dignity far beyond the dream of their builders. Their pointing spires were
      relieved against the enormous facades of business. What other altars ever
      had such a reredos? Above the strepitant racket of the streets, he heard
      the harsh chimes of Trinity at noonday&mdash;strong jags of clangour
      hurled against the great sounding-boards of buildings; drifting and dying
      away down side alleys. There was no soft music of appeal in the bronze
      volleying: it was the hoarse monitory voice of rebuke. So spoke the church
      of old, he thought: not asking, not appealing, but imperatively, sternly,
      as one born to command. He thought with new respect of Mr. Sealyham, Mr.
      Mastiff, Mr. Dachshund, all the others who were powers in these fantastic
      flumes of stone. They were more than merely husbands of charge accounts&mdash;they
      were poets. They sat at lunch on the tops of their amazing edifices, and
      looked off at the blue.
    </p>
    <p>
      Day after day went by, but with a serene fatalism Gissing did nothing
      about hunting a job. He was willing to wait until the last dollar was
      broken: in the meantime he was content. You never know the soul of a city,
      he said, until you are down on your luck. Now, he felt, he had been here
      long enough to understand her. She did not give her secrets to the world
      of Fifth Avenue. Down here, where the deep crevice of Broadway opened out
      into greenness, what was the first thing he saw? Out across the harbour,
      turned toward open sea&mdash;Liberty! Liberty Enlightening the World, he
      had heard, was her full name. Some had mocked her, he had also heard.
      Well, what was the gist of her enlightenment? Why this, surely: that
      Liberty could never be more than a statue: never a reality. Only a fool
      would expect complete liberty. He himself, with all his latitude, was not
      free. If he were, he would cook his meals in his room, and save money&mdash;but
      Mrs. Purp was strict on that point. She had spoken scathingly of two young
      females she ejected for just that reason. Nor was Mrs. Purp free&mdash;she
      was ridden by the Gas Company. So it went.
    </p>
    <p>
      It struck him, now he was down to about three dollars, that a generous
      gesture toward Fortune might be valuable. When you are nearly out of
      money, he reasoned, to toss coins to the gods&mdash;i. e., to buy
      something quite unnecessary&mdash;may be propitiatory. It may start
      something moving in your direction. It is the touch of bravado that God
      relishes. In a sudden mood of tenderness, he bought two dollars' worth of
      toys and had them sent to the children. He smiled to think how they would
      frolic over the jumping rabbit. He sent Mrs. Spaniel a postcard of the
      Aquarium.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a good deal more to this business than I had realized, he said,
      as he walked uptown through the East Side slums that hot night. The
      audacity, the vitality, the magnificence, are plain enough. But I seem to
      see squalor too, horror and pitiful dearth. I believe God is farther off
      than I thought. Look here: if the more you know, the less you know about
      God, doesn't that mean that God is really enjoyed only by the completely
      simple&mdash;by faith, never by reason?
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave twenty-five cents to a beggar, and said angrily: &ldquo;I am not
      interested in a God who is known only by faith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he got uptown he was very tired and hungry. In spite of all Mrs.
      Purp's rules, he smuggled in an egg, a box of biscuits, a small packet of
      tea and sugar, and a tin of condensed milk. He emptied the milk into his
      shaving mug, and used the tin to boil water in, holding it over the gas
      jet. He was getting on finely when a sudden knock on the door made him
      jump. He spilled the hot water on his leg, and uttered a wild yell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Purp burst in, but she was so excited that she did not notice the egg
      seeping into the clean counterpane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Gissing,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;I've been waiting all evening for you
      to come in. Purp and I wondered if you'd seen this in the paper to-night?
      Purp noticed it in the ads., but we couldn't understand what it meant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held out a page of classified advertising, in which he read with
      amazement:
    </p>
    <p>
      PERSONAL
    </p>
    <p>
      If MR. GISSING, late floorwalker at Beagle and Company, will communicate
      with Mr. Beagle Senior, he will hear matters greatly to his advantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER NINE
    </h2>
    <p>
      There had been great excitement in the private offices of Beagle and
      Company after Gissing's sudden disappearance. Old Mr. Beagle was furious,
      and hotly scolded his son. In spite of his advanced age, Beagle senior was
      still an autocrat and insisted on regulating the details of the great
      business he had built up. &ldquo;You numbskull!&rdquo; he shouted to Beagle junior,
      &ldquo;that fellow was worth any dozen others in the place, and you let him be
      fired by a mongrel superintendent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Papa,&rdquo; protested the vice-president, &ldquo;the superintendent had to obey
      the rules. You know how strict the underwriters are about smoking. Of
      course he should have warned Gissing, instead of discharging him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rules!&rdquo; interrupted old Beagle fiercely&mdash;&ldquo;Rules don't apply in a
      case like this. I tell you that fellow has a genius for storekeeping.
      Haven't I watched him on the floor? I've never seen one like him. What's
      the good of your newfangled methods, your card indexes and overhead
      charts, when you haven't even got a record of his address?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Growling and showing his teeth, the head of the firm plodded stiffly
      downstairs and discharged the superintendent himself. Already he saw signs
      of disorganization in the main aisle. Miss Whippet was tearful: customers
      were waiting impatiently to have exchange slips O. K.'d: Mrs. Dachshund
      was turning over some jewelled lorgnettes, but it was plain that she was
      only &ldquo;looking,&rdquo; and had no intention to purchase.
    </p>
    <p>
      So when, after many vain inquiries, the advertisement reached its target,
      the old gentleman welcomed Gissing with genuine emotion. He received him
      into his private office, locked the door, and produced a decanter.
      Evidently beneath his irritable moods he had sensibilities of his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have given my life to trade,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and I have grown weary of
      watching the half-hearted simpletons who imagine they can rise to the top
      by thinking more about themselves than they do about the business. You,
      Mr. Gissing, have won my heart. You see storekeeping as I do&mdash;a fine
      art, an absorbing passion, a beautiful, thrilling sport. It is an art as
      lovely and subtle as the theatre, with the same skill in wooing and
      charming the public.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing bowed, and drank Mr. Beagle's health, to cover his astonishment.
      The aged merchant fixed him with a glittering eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can see that storekeeping is your genius in life. I can see that you
      are naturally consecrated to it. My son is a good steady fellow, but he
      lacks the divine gift. I am getting old. We need new fire, new brains, in
      the conduct of this business. I ask you to forgive the unlucky blunder we
      made lately, and devote yourself to us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing was very much embarrassed. He wanted to say that if he was going
      to consecrate himself to floorwalking, he would relish a raise in salary;
      but old Beagle was so tremulous and kept blowing his nose so loudly that
      Gissing doubted if he could make himself heard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to take a position as General Manager,&rdquo; said Mr. Beagle, &ldquo;with
      a salary of ten thousand a year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose and threw open a mahogany door that led out of his own sanctum.
      &ldquo;Here is your office,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bewildered Gissing looked about the room&mdash;the mahogany
      flat-topped desk with a great sheet of plate glass shining greenly at its
      thick edges; an inkwell, pens and pencils, a little glass bowl full of
      bright paper-clips; one of those rocking blotters that are so tempting; a
      water cooler which just then uttered a seductive gulping bubble; an
      electric fan, gently humming; wooden trays for letters and memoranda; on
      one wall a great chart of names, lettered Organization of Personnel; a
      nice domestic-looking hat-and-coat stand; a soft green rug&mdash;Ah, how
      alluring it all was!
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Beagle pointed to the outer door of the room, which had a frosted
      pane. Through the glass the astounded floorwalker could read the words
    </p>
    <p>
      REGANAM LARENEG GNISSIG.RM
    </p>
    <p>
      What a delightful little room to meditate in. From the broad windows he
      could see the whole shining tideway of Fifth Avenue, passing lazily in the
      warm sunlight. He turned to Mr. Beagle, greatly moved.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day an advertisement appeared in the leading papers, to this
      effect:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          ________________________
          BEAGLE AND COMPANY
          take pleasure in announcing to
          their patrons and friends that
          MR. GISSING
           has been admitted to the firm in
          the status of General Manager
          Je Maintiendrai
          __________________________
</pre>
    <p>
      Mrs. Purp's excitement at this is easier imagined than described. Her only
      fear was that now she would lose her best lodger. She made Purp go out and
      buy a new shirt and a collar; she told Gissing, rather pathetically, that
      she intended to have the whole house repapered in the fall. The big double
      suite downstairs, which could be used as bedroom and sitting-room, she
      suggested as a comfortable change. But Gissing preferred to remain where
      he was. He had grown fond of the top floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Certainly there was an exhilaration in his new importance and prosperity.
      The store buzzed with the news. At his request, Miss Whippet was promoted
      to the seventh floor to be his secretary. It was delightful to make his
      morning tour of inspection through the vast building. Mr. Hound, the store
      detective, loved to tell his cronies how suspiciously he had followed &ldquo;The
      Duke&rdquo; that first day. As Gissing moved through the busy departments he saw
      eyes following him, tails wagging. Customers were more flattered than ever
      by his courteous attentions. One day he even held a little luncheon party
      in the restaurant, at which Mrs. Dachshund, Mrs. Mastiff, and Mrs.
      Sealyham were his guests. He invited their husbands, but the latter were
      too busy to come. It would have been more prudent of them to attend. That
      afternoon Mrs. Dachshund, carried away by enthusiasm, bought a platinum
      wrist-watch. Mrs. Mastiff bought a diamond dog-collar. Mrs. Sealyham,
      whose husband was temporarily embarrassed in Wall Street, contented
      herself with a Sheraton chifforobe.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it began to be evident that his delightful little office was not going
      to be a shrine for quiet meditation. His vanity had been pleased by the
      large advertisement about him, but he suddenly realized the poison that
      lies in printer's ink. Almost overnight, it seemed, he had been added to
      ten thousand mailing lists. Little Miss Whippet, although she was fast at
      typewriting, was hard put to it to keep up with his correspondence. She
      quivered eagerly over her machine, her small paws flying. New pink ribbons
      gleamed through her translucent summery georgette blouse. They were her
      flag of exultation at her surprising rise in life. She felt it was
      immensely important to get all these letters answered promptly.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so did Gissing. In his new zeal, and in his innocent satisfaction at
      having entered the inner circle of Big Business, he insisted on answering
      everything. He did not realize that dictating letters is the quaint
      diversion of business men, and that most of them mean nothing. It is
      simply the easiest way of assuring yourself that you are busy.
    </p>
    <p>
      This job was no sinecure. Old Mr. Beagle had so much affectionate
      confidence in Gissing that he referred almost everything to him for
      decision. Mr. Beagle junior, perhaps a little annoyed at the floorwalker's
      meteoric translation, spent the summer afternoons at golf. The infinite
      details of a great business crowded upon him. Inexperienced, he had not
      learned the ways in which seasoned &ldquo;executives&rdquo; protect themselves against
      useless intrusion. His telephone buzzed like a hornet. Not five minutes
      went by without callers or interruptions of some sort.
    </p>
    <p>
      Most amazing of all, he found, was the miscellaneous passion for palaver
      displayed by Big Business. Immediately he was invited to join innumerable
      clubs, societies, merchants' associations. Every day would arrive letters,
      on heavily embossed paper&mdash;&ldquo;The Sales Managers Club will hold a
      round-table discussion on Friday at one o'clock. We would greatly
      appreciate it if you would be with us and say a few words.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Will
      you be our guest at the monthly dinner of the Fifth Avenue Guild, and give
      us any preachment that is on your mind?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;The Merchandising Uplift
      Group of Murray Hill will meet at the Commodore for an informal lunch. It
      has been suggested that you contribute to the discussion on Underwriting
      Overhead.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;The Executives Association plans a clambake and barbecue
      at the Barking Rock Country Club. Around the bonfire a few impromptu
      remarks on Business Cycles will be called for. May we count on you?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Will
      you address the Convention of Knitted Bodygarment Buyers, on whatever
      topic is nearest your heart?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Will you write for Bunion and
      Callous, the trade organ of the Floorwalkers' Union, a thousand-word
      review of your career?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Will you broadcast a twenty-minute talk on
      Department Store Ethics, at the radio station in Newark? 250,000 radio
      fans will be listening in.&rdquo; New to the strange and high-spirited world of
      &ldquo;executives,&rdquo; it was natural that Gissing did not realize that the net
      importance of this kind of thing was absolute zero. It did strike him as
      odd, perhaps, that merchants did not dare to go on a junket or plan a
      congenial dinner without pretending to themselves that it had some
      business significance. But, having been so amazingly lifted into this
      atmosphere of great affairs, he felt it was his duty to the store to play
      the game according to the established rules. He was borne along on a
      roaring spate of conferences, telephone calls, appointments, Rotarian
      lunches, Chamber of Commerce dinners, picnics to talk tariff,
      house-parties to discuss demurrage, tennis tournaments to settle the
      sales-tax, golf foursomes to regulate price-maintenance. Of all these
      matters he knew nothing whatever; and he also saw that as far as the
      business of Beagle and Company was concerned it would be better not to
      waste his time on such side-issues. The way he could really be of service
      was in the store itself, tactfully lubricating that complicated engine of
      goods and personalities. But he learned to utter, when called upon, a few
      suave generalities, barbed with a rollicking story. This made him always
      welcome. He was of a studious disposition, and liked to examine this queer
      territory of life with an unprejudiced eye. After all, his inward secret
      purpose had nothing to do with the success or failure of retail trade. He
      was still seeking a horizon that would stay blue when he reached it.
    </p>
    <p>
      More and more he was interested to perceive how transparent the mummery of
      business was. He was interested to note how persistently men fled from
      success, how carefully most of them avoided the obvious principles of
      utility, honesty, prudence, and courtesy, which are inevitably rewarded.
      These sagacious, humorous fellows who were amusing themselves with
      twaddling trade apothegms and ridiculous banqueteering solemnities, surely
      they were aware that this had no bearing upon their own jobs? He suspected
      that it was all a feverish anodyne to still some inward unease. Since they
      must (not being fools) be aware that these antics were mere subtraction of
      time from their business, the obvious conclusion was, they were not happy
      with business. There was some strange wistfulness in the conduct of Big
      Business Dogs, he thought. Under the pretence of transacting affairs, they
      were really trying to discover something that had eluded them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same thing, strangely enough, seemed to be going on in a sphere of
      which he knew nothing, the world of art. He gathered from the papers that
      writers, painters, musicians, were holding shindies almost every night, at
      which delightful rebels, too busy to occupy themselves with actual
      creation, talked charmingly about their plans. Poets were reading poems
      incessantly, forgetting to write any. Much of the newspaper comment on
      literature made him shudder, for though this was a province quite strange
      to him, he had sound instincts. He discerned fatal ignorance and absurdity
      between the pompous lines. Yet, in its own way, it seemed a bold and
      honest ignorance. Were these, too, like the wistful executives, seeking
      where the blue begins?
    </p>
    <p>
      But what was this strange agitation that forbade his fellow-creatures from
      enjoying the one thing that makes achievement possible&mdash;Solitude? He
      himself, so happy to be left alone&mdash;was no one else like that? And
      yet this very solitude that he craved and revelled in was, by a sublime
      paradox, haunted by mysterious loneliness. He felt sometimes as though his
      heart had been broken off from some great whole, to which it yearned to be
      reunited. It felt like a bone that had been buried, which God would some
      day dig up. Sometimes, in his caninomorphic conception of deity, he felt
      near him the thunder of those mighty paws. In rare moments of silence he
      gazed from his office window upon the sun-gilded, tempting city. Her
      madness was upon him&mdash;her splendid craze of haste, ambition, pride.
      Yet he wondered. This God he needed, this liberating horizon, was it after
      all in the cleverest of hiding-places&mdash;in himself? Was it in his own
      undeluded heart?
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Whippet came scurrying in to say that the Display Manager begged him
      to attend a conference. The question of apportioning window space to the
      various departments was to be reconsidered. Also, the book department had
      protested having rental charged against them for books exhibited merely to
      add a finishing touch to a furniture display. Other agenda: the Personnel
      Director wished an appointment to discuss the ruling against salesbitches
      bobbing their hair. The Commissary Department wished to present revised
      figures as to the economy that would be effected by putting the employees'
      cafeteria on the same floor as the store's restaurant. He must decide
      whether early closing on Saturdays would continue until Labor Day.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he went about these and a hundred other fascinating trivialities, he
      had a painful sense of treachery to Mr. Beagle senior. The old gentleman
      was so touchingly certain that he had found in him the ideal shoulders on
      which to unload his honourable and crushing burden. With more than
      paternal pride old Beagle saw Gissing, evidently urbane and competent,
      cheerfully circulating here and there. The shy angel of doubt that lay
      deep in Gissing's cider-coloured eye, the proprietor did not come near
      enough to observe.
    </p>
    <p>
      If there is tragedy in our story, alas here it is. Gissing, incorrigible
      seceder from responsibilities that did not touch his soul, did not dare
      tell his benefactor the horrid truth. But the worm was in his heart. Late
      one night, in his room at Mrs. Purp's, he wrote a letter to Mr. Poodle.
      After mailing it at a street-box, he had a sudden pang. To the dreamer,
      decisions are fearful. Then he shook himself and ran lightly to a little
      lunchroom on Amsterdam Avenue, where he enjoyed doughnuts and iced tea.
      His mind was resolved. The doughnuts, by a simple symbolism, made him
      think of Rotary Clubs, also of millstones. No, he must be fugitive from
      honour, from wealth, from Chambers of Commerce. Fugitive from all save his
      own instinct. Those who have bound themselves are only too eager to see
      the chains on others. There was no use attempting to explain to Mr. Beagle&mdash;the
      dear old creature would not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day, after happily and busily discharging his duties, and staying
      late to clean up his desk, Gissing left Beagle and Company for good. The
      only thing that worried him, as he looked round his comfortable office for
      the last time, was the thought of little Miss Whippet's chagrin when she
      found her new promotion at an end. She had taken such delight in their
      mutual dignity. On the filing cabinet beside her typewriter desk was a
      pink geranium in a pot, which she watered every morning. He could not
      resist pulling out a drawer of her desk, and smiled gently to see the
      careful neatness of its compartments, with all her odds and ends usefully
      arranged. The ink-eraser, with an absurd little whisk attached to it for
      brushing away fragments of rubbed paper; the fascicle of sharpened pencils
      held together by an elastic band; the tiny phial of typewriter oil; a
      small box of peppermints; a crumpled handkerchief; the stenographic
      notebook with a pencil inserted at the blank page, so as to be ready for
      instant service the next day; the long paper-cutter for slitting
      envelopes; her memorandum pad, on which was written Remind Mr. G. of
      Window Display Luncheon&mdash;it seemed cruel to deprive her of all these
      innocent amusements in which she delighted so much. And yet he could not
      go on as a General Manager simply for the happiness of Miss Whippet.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the foliage of the geranium, where he knew she would find it the first
      thing in the morning, he left a note:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      MISS WHIPPET: I am leaving the store to-night and will not be back. Please
      notify Mr. Beagle. Explain to him that I shall never take a position with
      one of his competitors; I am leaving not because I didn't enjoy the job,
      but because if I stayed longer I might enjoy it too much. Tell Mr. Beagle
      that I specially urge him to retain you as assistant to the new Manager,
      whoever that may be. You are entirely competent to attend to the routine,
      and the new Manager can spend all his time at business lunches.
    </p>
    <p>
      Please inform the Display Managers' Club that I can't speak at their
      meeting to-morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      I wish you all possible good-fortune.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                           MR. GISSING.
</pre>
    <p>
      As he passed through the dim and silent aisles of the store, he surveyed
      them again with mixed emotions. Here he might, apparently, have been king.
      But he had no very poignant regret. Another of his numerous selves, he
      reflected, had committed suicide. That was the right idea: to keep
      sloughing them off, throwing overboard the unreal and factitious Gissings,
      paring them down until he discovered the genuine and inalienable creature.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so, for the second time, he made a stealthy exit from the employees'
      door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Four days later he read in the paper of old Mr. Beagle's death. There can
      be no doubt about it. The merchant died of a broken heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TEN
    </h2>
    <h3>
      Mr. Poodle's reply was disappointing. He said:&mdash;
    </h3>
    <p>
      St. Bernard's Rectory, September 1st.
    </p>
    <p>
      MY DEAR MR. GISSING:
    </p>
    <p>
      I regret that I cannot conscientiously see my way to writing to the Bishop
      in your behalf. Any testimonial I could compose would be doubtful at best,
      for I cannot agree with you that the Church is your true vocation. I do
      not believe that one who has deserted his family, as you have, and whose
      record (even on the most charitable interpretation) cannot be described as
      other than eccentric, would be useful in Holy Orders. You say that your
      life in the city has been a great purgation. If so, I suggest that you
      return and take up the burdens laid upon you. It has meant great
      mortification to me that one of my own parish has been the cause of these
      painful rumours that have afflicted our quiet community. Notwithstanding,
      I wish you well, and hope that chastening experience may bring you peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Very truly yours,
    </p>
    <p>
      J. ROVER POODLE.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing meditated this letter in the silence of along evening in his room.
      He brought to the problem his favourite aid to clear thinking&mdash;strong
      coffee mixed with condensed milk. Mrs. Purp had made concession to his
      peculiarities when he had risen so high in the world: better to break any
      rules, she thought, than lose so notable a tenant. She had even installed
      a small gas-plate for him, so that he could brew his morning and evening
      coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      So he took counsel with his percolator, whose bubbling was a sound he
      found both soothing and stimulating. He regarded it as a kind of private
      oracle, with a calm voice of its own. He listened attentively as he waited
      for the liquid to darken. Appeal&mdash;to&mdash;the&mdash;Bishop, Appeal&mdash;to-the&mdash;Bishop,
      seemed to be the speech of the jetting gurgitation under the glass lid.
    </p>
    <p>
      He determined to act upon this, and lay his case before Bishop Borzoi even
      without the introduction he had hoped for. Fortunately he still had some
      sheets of Beagle and Company notepaper, with the engraved lettering and
      Office of the General Manager embossed thereon. He was in some doubt as to
      the proper formality and style of address in communicating with a Bishop:
      was it &ldquo;Very Reverend,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Right Reverend&rdquo;? and which of these indicated
      a superior grade of reverendability? But he decided that a masculine
      frankness would not be amiss. He wrote:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      VERY RIGHT REVEREND BISHOP BORZOI,
    </p>
    <p>
      Dear Bishop:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      May one of the least of your admirers solicit an interview with your very
      right reverence, to discuss matters pertaining to religion, theology, and
      a possible vacancy in the Church? If there are any sees outstanding, it
      would be a favour. This is very urgent. I enclose a stamped addressed
      envelope.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         Respectfully yours,

                 MR. GISSING.
</pre>
    <p>
      A prompt reply from the Bishop's secretary granted him an appointment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scrupulously attired in his tail-coat and silk hat, Gissing proceeded
      toward the rendezvous. To tell the truth, he was nervous: his mind flitted
      uneasily among possible embarrassments. Suppose Mr. Poodle had written to
      the Bishop to prejudice his application? Another, but more absurd, idea
      troubled him. One of the problems in visiting the houses of the Great (he
      had learned in his brief career in Big Business) is to find the door-bell.
      It is usually mysteriously concealed. Suppose he should have to peer
      hopelessly about the vestibule, in a shameful and suspicious manner, until
      some flunky came out to chide? In the sunny park below the Cathedral he
      saw nurses sitting by their puppy-carriages; for an instant he almost
      envied their gross tranquillity. THEY have not got (he said to himself) to
      call on a Bishop!
    </p>
    <p>
      He was early, so he strolled for a few minutes in the park that lies
      underneath that rocky scarp. On the summit, clear-surging against the
      blue, the great church rode like a ship on a long ridge of sea. The angel
      with a trumpet on the jut of the roof was like a valiant seaman in the
      crow's nest. His agitation was calmed by this noble sight. Yes, he said,
      the Church is a ship behind whose bulwarks I will find rest. She sails an
      unworldly sea: her crew are exempt from earthly ambition and fallacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      He ran nimbly up the long steps that scale the cliff, and approached the
      episcopal residence. The bell was plainly visible. He rang, and presently
      came a tidy little housemaid. He had meditated a form of words. It would
      be absurd to say &ldquo;Is the Bishop in?&rdquo; for he knew the Bishop WAS in. So he
      said &ldquo;This is Mr. Gissing. I think the Bishop is expecting me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bishop Borzoi was an impressive figure&mdash;immensely tall and slender,
      with long, narrow ascetic face and curly white hair. He was surprisingly
      cordial.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Mr. Gissing?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Sit down, sir. I know Beagle and Company very
      well. Too well, in fact-Mrs. Borzoi has an account there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing, feeling rather aghast and tentative, had no comment ready. He was
      still worrying a little as to the proper mode of address.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very pleasant to find you Influential Merchants interested in the
      Church,&rdquo; continued the Bishop. &ldquo;I often thought of approaching the late
      Mr. Beagle on the subject of a small contribution to the cathedral.
      Indeed, I have spent so much in your store that it would be only a fair
      return. Mr. Collie, of Greyhound, Collie and Company, has been very
      handsome with us: he has just provided for repaving the choir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing began to fear that the object of his visit had perhaps been
      misunderstood, but the prelate's eyes were bright with benignant
      enthusiasm and he dared not interrupt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You inquired most kindly in your letter as to a possible vacancy in the
      Church. Indeed there is a niche in the transept that I should be happy to
      see filled. It is intended for some kind of memorial statue, and perhaps,
      in honour of the late Mr. Beagle&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must explain, Sir Bishop,&rdquo; said Gissing, very much disturbed, &ldquo;that I
      have left Beagle and Company. The contribution I wish to make to the
      Church is not a decorative one, I fear. It is myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yourself?&rdquo; queried the Bishop, politely puzzled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; stammered Gissing, &ldquo;I&mdash;in fact, I am hoping to&mdash;to enter
      the ministry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop was plainly amazed, and his long, aristocratic nose seemed
      longer than ever as he gazed keenly at his caller.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But have you had any formal training in theology?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None, right reverend Bishop,&rdquo; said Gissing, &ldquo;But it's this way,&rdquo; and,
      incoherently at first, but with increasing energy and copious eloquence,
      he poured out the story of his mental struggles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is singularly interesting,&rdquo; said the Bishop at length. &ldquo;I can see
      that you are wholly lacking in the rudiments of divinity. Of modern
      exegesis and criticism you are quite innocent. But you evidently have
      something which is much rarer&mdash;what the Quakers call a CONCERN. Of
      course you should really go to the theological seminary and establish this
      naif intuitive mysticism upon a disciplined basis. You will realize that
      we churchmen can only meet modern rationalism by a rationalism of our own&mdash;by
      a philosophical scholarship which is unshakable. I do not suppose that you
      can even harmonize the Gospels?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing ruefully admitted his ignorance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, at least I must make sure of a few fundamentals,&rdquo; said the Bishop.
      &ldquo;Of course a symbological latitude is permissible, but there are some
      essentials of dogma and creed that may not be foregone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He subjected the candidate to a rapid catechism. Gissing, in a state of
      mind curiously mingled of excitement and awe, found himself assenting to
      much that, in a calmer moment, he would hardly have admitted; but having
      plunged so deep into the affair he felt it would be the height of
      discourtesy to give negative answers to any of the Bishop's queries. By
      dint of hasty mental adjustments and symbolic interpretations, he
      satisfied his conscience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very irregular,&rdquo; the Bishop admitted, &ldquo;but I must confess that your
      case interests me greatly. Of course I cannot admit you to ordination
      until you have passed through the regular theological curriculum. Yet I
      find you singularly apt for one without proper training.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He brooded a while, fixing the candidate with a clear darkly burning eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It struck me that you were a trifle vague upon some of the Articles of
      Religion, and the Table of Kindred and Affinity. You must remember that
      these articles are not to be subjected to your own sense or comment, but
      must be taken in the literal and grammatical meaning. However, you show
      outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace. It so happens
      that I know of a small chapel, in the country, that has been closed for
      lack of a minister. I can put you in charge there as lay reader.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing's face showed his elation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And wear a cassock?&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not,&rdquo; said the Bishop sternly. &ldquo;Not even a surplice. You must
      remember you have not been ordained. If you are serious in your zeal, you
      must work your way up gradually, beginning at the bottom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen some of your cloth with a little purple dickey which looks
      very well in the aperture of the waistcoat,&rdquo; said Gissing humbly. &ldquo;How
      long would it take me to work up to that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bishop Borzoi, who had a sense of humour, laughed genially.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;It's a fine afternoon: I'll order my car and we'll
      drive out to Dalmatian Heights. I'll show you your chapel, and tell you
      exactly what your duties will be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing was startled. Dalmatian Heights was only a few miles from the
      Canine Estates. If the news should reach Mr. Poodle...
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir Bishop,&rdquo; he said nervously, &ldquo;I begin to fear that perhaps after all I
      am unworthy. Now about those Articles of Religion: I may perhaps have
      given some of them a conjectural and commentating assent. Possibly I have
      presumed too far&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop was already looking forward to a ride into the country with his
      unusual novice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, not at all,&rdquo; he said cheerily. &ldquo;In a mere lay reader, a
      slight laxity is allowable. You understand, of course, that you are
      expressly restricted from the pulpit. You will have to read the lessons,
      conduct the service, and may address the congregation upon matters not
      homiletic nor doctrinal; preaching and actual entry into the pulpit are
      defended. But I see excellent possibility in you. Perform the duties
      punctually in this very lowly office, and high ranks of service in the
      church militant will be open.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put on a very fine shovel-hat, and led the way to his large touring
      car.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a very uncomfortable ride for Gissing. A silk hat is the least
      stable apparel for swift motoring, and the chauffeur drove at high speed.
      The Bishop, leaning back in the open tonneau, crossed one delicately
      slender shank over another, gazed in a kind of ecstasy at the countryside,
      and talked gaily about his days as a young curate. Gissing sat holding his
      hat on. He saw only too well that, by the humiliating oddity of chance,
      they were going to take the road that led exactly past his own house. He
      could only hope that Mrs. Spaniel and the various children would not be
      visible, for explanations would be too complicated. Desperately he praised
      the view to be obtained on another road, but Bishop Borzoi was too
      interested in his own topic to pay much attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; said the latter, as they drew near the familiar region, &ldquo;I
      must introduce you to Miss Airedale. She lives in the big place on the
      hill over there. Her family always used to attend what I will now call
      YOUR chapel; she is a very ardent churchgoer, and it was a sincere grief
      to her when the place had to be closed. You will find her a great aid and
      comfort; not only that, she is&mdash;what one does not always find in the
      devouter members of her sex&mdash;young and beautiful. I think I
      understood you to say you are a bachelor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were approaching the last turning at which it was still possible to
      avoid the fatal road, and Gissing's attention was divided.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, after a fashion,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Bishop, do you know that road down
      into the valley? The view is really superb&mdash;Yes, that road&mdash;Oh,
      no, I am a bachelor&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was too late. The chauffeur, unconscious of this private crisis, was
      spinning along the homeward way. With a tender emotion Gissing saw the
      spires of the poplar trees, the hemlocks down beyond the pond, the fringe
      of woods that concealed the house until you were quite upon it&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      The car swerved suddenly and the driver only saved it by a quick and canny
      manoeuvre from going down the bank. He came to a stop, and almost from
      underneath the rear wheels appeared a scuffling dusty group of youngsters
      who had been playing in the road. There they were&mdash;Bunks, Groups, and
      Yelpers (inordinately grown!) and two of the Spaniels. Their clothes were
      deplorable, their faces grimed, their legs covered with burrs, their whole
      demeanour was ragamuffin and wild: yet Gissing felt a pang of pride to see
      his godchildren's keen, independent bearing contrasted with the rowdier,
      disreputable look of the young Spaniels. Quickly he averted his head to
      escape recognition. But the urchins were all gaping at the Bishop's shovel
      hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hot dog!&rdquo; cried Yelpers &ldquo;Some hat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To his horror, Gissing now saw Mrs. Spaniel, hastening in alarm down from
      the house, spilling potatoes from her apron as she ran. He hurriedly urged
      the driver to proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What terrible looking children,&rdquo; observed the Bishop, who seemed
      fascinated by their stare. &ldquo;Really, my good sister,&rdquo; he said to Mrs.
      Spaniel, who was now panting by the running board; &ldquo;you must keep them off
      the road or someone will get hurt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing was looking for an imaginary object on the floor of the car. To
      his great relief he heard the roar of the motor as they started again. But
      he sat up a little too soon. A simultaneous roar of &ldquo;Daddy!&rdquo; burst from
      the trio.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was that they were shouting at us?&rdquo; inquired the Bishop, looking
      back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing shook his head. He was too overcome to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER ELEVEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      The little chapel at Dalmatian Heights sat upon a hill, among a grove of
      pines, the most romantic of all trees. Life, a powerful but clumsy
      dramatist, does not reject the most claptrap &ldquo;situations,&rdquo; which a
      sophisticated playwright would discard as too obvious. For this sandy
      plateau, strewn with satiny pine-needles, was the very horizon that had
      looked so blue and beckoning from the little house by the pond. Not far
      away was the great Airedale estate, which Gissing had known only at an
      admiring distance&mdash;and now he was living there as an honoured guest.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop had taken him to call upon the Airedales; and they, delighted
      that the chapel was to be re-opened, had insisted upon his staying with
      them. The chapel, in fact, was a special interest with Mr. Airedale, who
      had been a leading contributor toward its erection. Gissing was finding
      that life seemed to be continually putting him into false positions; and
      now he discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that the lovely little shrine
      of St. Spitz, whose stained windows glowed like rubies in its cloister of
      dark trees, was rather a fashionable hobby among the wealthy landowners of
      Dalmatian Hills. It had been closed all summer, and they had missed it.
      The Bishop, in his airy and indefinite way, had not made it quite plain
      that Gissing was only a lay reader; and in spite of his embarrassed
      disclaimers, he found himself introduced by Mr. Airedale to the
      country-house clique as the new &ldquo;vicar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But at any rate it was lucky that the Airedales had insisted on taking him
      in as a guest; for he had learned from the Bishop (just as the latter was
      leaving) that there was no stipend attached to the office of lay reader.
      Fortunately he still had much of the money he had saved from his salary as
      General Manager. And whatever sense of anomaly he felt was quickly
      assuaged by the extraordinary comfort and novelty of his environment. In
      the great Airedale mansion he experienced for the first time that ultimate
      triumph of civilization&mdash;a cup of tea served in bed before breakfast,
      with slices of bread-and-butter of tenuous and amazing fragile thinness.
      He was pleased, too, with the deference paid him as a representative of
      the cloth, even though it compelled him to a solemnity he did not inwardly
      feel. But most of all, undoubtedly, he was captivated by the loveliness
      and warmth of Miss Airedale.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop had not erred. Admiring the aristocratic Roman trend of her
      brow and nose; the proud, inquisitive carriage of her somewhat rectangular
      head, her admirable, vigorous figure and clear topaz eyes, Gissing was
      aware of something he had not experienced before&mdash;a disturbance both
      urgent and agreeable, in which the intellect seemed to play little part.
      He was startled by the strength of her attractiveness, amazed to learn how
      pleasing it was to be in her company. She was very young and brisk: wore
      clothes of a smart sporting cut, and was (he thought) quite divine in her
      riding breeches. But she was also completely devoted to the chapel, where
      she played the music on Sundays. She was a volatile creature, full of
      mischievous surprise: at their first music practice, after playing over
      some hymns on the pipe-organ, she burst into jazz, filling the quiet grove
      with the clamorous syncope of Paddy-Paws, a favourite song that summer.
    </p>
    <p>
      So into the brilliant social life of the Airedales and their friends he
      found himself suddenly pitchforked. In spite of the oddity of the
      situation, and of occasional anxiety when he considered the possibility of
      Mr. Poodle finding him out, he was very happy. This was not quite what he
      had expected, but he was always adaptable. Miss Airedale was an enchanting
      companion. In the privacy of his bedroom he measured himself for a pair of
      riding breeches and wrote to his tailor in town to have them made as soon
      as possible. He served the little chapel assiduously, though he felt it
      better to conceal from the Airedales the fact that he went there every
      day. He suspected they would think him slightly mad if they knew, so he
      used to pretend that he had business in town. Then he would slip away to
      the balsam-scented hilltop and be perfectly happy sweeping the chapel
      floor, dusting the pews, polishing the brasswork, rearranging the hymnals
      in the racks. He arranged with the milkman to leave a bottle of milk and
      some cinnamon buns at the chapel gate every morning, so he had a cheerful
      and stealthy little lunch in the vestry-room, though always a trifle
      nervous lest some of his parishioners should discover him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He practiced reading the lessons aloud at the brass lectern, and
      discovered how easy is dramatic elocution when you are alone. He wished it
      were possible to hold a service daily. For the first time he was able to
      sing hymns as loud as he liked. Miss Airedale played the organ with
      emphatic fervour, and the congregation, after a little hesitation, enjoyed
      the lusty sincerity of a hymn well trolled. Some of his flock, who had
      previously relished taking part in the general routine of the service,
      were disappointed by his zeal, for Gissing insisted on doing everything
      himself. He rang the bell, ushered the congregation to their seats, read
      the service, recited the Quadrupeds' Creed, led the choir, gave out as
      many announcements as he could devise, took up the collection, and at the
      close skipped out through the vestry and was ready and beaming in the
      porch before the nimblest worshipper had reached the door. On his first
      Sunday, indeed, he carried enthusiasm rather too far: in an innocent
      eagerness to prolong the service as much as possible, and being too
      excited to realize quite what he was doing, he went through the complete
      list of supplications for all possible occasions. The congregation were
      startled to find themselves praying simultaneously both for rain and for
      fair weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a cupboard in the vestry-room he had found an old surplice hanging; he
      took it down, tried it on before the mirror, and wistfully put it back. To
      this symbolic vestment his mind returned as he sat solitary under the
      pine-trees, looking down upon the valley of home. It was the season of
      goldenrod and aster on the hillsides: a hot swooning silence lay upon the
      late afternoon. The weight and closeness of the air had struck even the
      insects dumb. Under the pines, generally so murmurous, there was something
      almost gruesome in the blank stillness: a suspension so absolute that the
      ears felt dull and sealed. He tried, involuntarily, to listen more
      clearly, to know if this uncanny hush were really so. There was a sense of
      being imprisoned, but only most delicately, in a spell, which some sudden
      cracking might disrupt.
    </p>
    <p>
      The surplice tempted him strongly, for it suggested the sermon he felt
      impelled to deliver, against the Bishop's orders. For the beautiful chapel
      in the piny glade was, somehow, false: or, at any rate, false for him. The
      architect had made it a dainty poem in stone and polished wood, but
      somehow God had evaded the neat little trap. Moreover, the God his
      well-bred congregation worshipped, the old traditionally imagined
      snow-white St. Bernard with radiant jowls of tenderness, shining dewlaps
      of love; paternal, omnipotent, calm&mdash;this deity, though sublime in
      its way, was too plainly an extension of their own desires. His prominent
      parishioners&mdash;Mr. Dobermann-Pinscher, Mrs. Griffon, Mrs. Retriever;
      even the delightful Mr. Airedale himself&mdash;was it not likely that they
      esteemed a deity everlastingly forgiving because they themselves felt need
      of forgiveness? He had been deeply shocked by the docility with which they
      followed the codes of the service: even when he had committed his blunder
      of the contradictory prayers, they had murmured the words automatically,
      without protest. To the terrific solemnities of the Litany they had made
      the responses with prompt gabbling precision, and with a rapidity that
      frankly implied impatience to take the strain off their knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      Somehow he felt that to account for a world of unutterable strangeness
      they had invented a God far too cheaply simple. His mood was certainly not
      one of ribald easy scoff. It was they (he assured himself) whose theology
      was essentially cynical; not he. He was a little weary of this just,
      charitable, consoling, hebdomadal God; this God who might be sufficiently
      honoured by a decorously memorized ritual. Yet was he too shallow? Was it
      not seemly that his fellows, bound on this dark, desperate venture of
      living, should console themselves with decent self-hypnosis?
    </p>
    <p>
      No, he thought. No, it was not entirely seemly. If they pretended that
      their God was the highest thing knowable, then they must bring to His
      worship the highest possible powers of the mind. He had a strange yearning
      for a God less lazily conceived: a God perhaps inclement, awful, master of
      inscrutable principles. Yet was it desirable to shake his congregation's
      belief in their traditional divinity? He thought of them&mdash;so amiable,
      amusing, spirited and generous, but utterly untrained for abstract
      imaginative thought on any subject whatever. His own strange surmisings
      about deity would only shock and horrify them And after all, was it not
      exactly their simplicity that made them lovable? The great laws of truth
      would work their own destinies without assistance from him! Even if these
      pleasant creatures did not genuinely believe the rites they so politely
      observed (he knew they did not, for BELIEF is an intellectual process of
      extraordinary range and depth), was it not socially useful that they
      should pretend to do so?
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet&mdash;with another painful swing of the mind&mdash;was it
      necessary that Truth should be worshipped with the aid of such
      astonishingly transparent formalisms, hoaxes, and mummeries? Alas, it
      seemed that this was an old, old struggle that must be troublesomely
      fought out, again and again down the generations. Prophets were twice
      stoned&mdash;first in anger; then, after their death, with a handsome slab
      in the graveyard. But words uttered in sincerity (he thought) never fail
      of some response. Though he saw his fellows leashed with a heavy chain of
      ignorance, stupidity, passion, and weakness, yet he divined in life some
      inscrutable principle of honour and justice; some unreckonable essence of
      virtue too intimate to understand; some fumbling aspiration toward
      decency, some brave generosity of spirit, some cheerful fidelity to
      Beauty. He could not see how, in a world so obviously vast and uncouth
      beyond computation, they could find a puny, tidy, assumptive, scheduled
      worship so satisfying. But perhaps, since all Beauty was so staggering, it
      was better they should cherish it in small formal minims. Perhaps in this
      whole matter there was some lovely symbolism that he did not understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The soft brightness was already lifting into upper air, a mingled tissue
      of shadows lay along the valley. In the magical clarity of the evening
      light he suddenly felt (as one often does, by unaccountable planetary
      instinct) that there was a new moon. Turning, he saw it, a silver snipping
      daintily afloat; and not far away, an early star. He had found no creed in
      the prayer-book that accounted for the stars. Here at the bottom of an
      ocean of sky, we look aloft and see them thick-speckled&mdash;mere
      barnacles, perhaps, on the keel of some greater ship of space. He
      remembered how at home there had been a certain burning twinkle that
      peeped through the screen of the dogwood tree. As he moved on his porch,
      it seemed to flit to and fro, appearing and vanishing. He was often
      uncertain whether it was a firefly a few yards away, or a star the other
      side of Time. Possibly Truth was like that.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a light swift rustle behind him, and Miss Airedale appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hullo!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I wondered where you were. Is this how you spend your
      afternoons, all alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Stars, creeds, cosmologies, promptly receded into remote perspective and
      had to shift for themselves. It was true that Gissing had somewhat avoided
      her lately, for he feared her fascination. He wished nothing else to
      interfere with his search for what he had not yet found. Postpone the
      female problem to the last, was his theory: not because it was insoluble,
      but because the solution might prove to be less interesting than the
      problem itself. But side by side with her, she was irresistible. A
      skittish brightness shone in her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great news!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;I've persuaded Papa to take us all down to
      Atlantic City for a couple of days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wonderful!&rdquo; cried Gissing. &ldquo;Do you know, I've never been to the
      seashore.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't worry,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;I won't let you see much of the ocean. We'll
      go to the Traymore, and spend the whole time dancing in the Submarine
      Grill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I must be back in time for the service on Sunday,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We're going to leave first thing in the morning. We'll go in the car, and
      I'll drive. Will you sit with me in the front seat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Watch me!&rdquo; replied Gissing gallantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on then, or you'll be late for dinner. I'll race you home!&rdquo; And she
      was off like a flash.
    </p>
    <p>
      But in spite of Miss Airedale's threat, at Atlantic City they both fell
      into a kind of dreamy reverie. The wine-like tingle of that salty air was
      a quiet drug. The apparently inexhaustible sunshine was sharpened with a
      faint sting of coming autumn. Gissing suddenly remembered that it was ages
      since he had simply let his mind run slack and allowed life to go by
      unstudied. Mr. and Mrs. Airedale occupied a suite high up in the terraced
      mass of the huge hotel; they wrapped themselves in rugs and basked on
      their private balcony. Gissing and the daughter were left to their own
      amusements. They bathed in the warm September surf; they strolled the
      Boardwalk up beyond the old Absecon light, where the green glimmer of
      water runs in under the promenade. They sat on the deck of the hotel&mdash;or
      rather Miss Airedale sat, while Gissing, courteously attentive, leaned
      over her steamer-chair. He stood so for hours, apparently in devoted chat;
      but in fact he was half in dream. The smooth flow of the little rolling
      shays just below had a soothing hypnotic erect. But it was the glorious
      polished blue of the sea-horizon that bounded all his thoughts. Even while
      Miss Airedale gazed archly up at him, and he was busy with cheerful
      conversation, he was conscious of that broad band of perfect colour,
      monotonous, comforting, thrilling. For the first time he realized the
      great rondure of the world. His mind went back to the section of the
      prayer-book that had always touched him most pointedly&mdash;the &ldquo;Forms of
      Prayer to be Used at Sea.&rdquo; In them he had found a note of sincere terror
      and humility. And now he viewed the sea for the first time in this setting
      of notable irony. The open dazzle of placid elements, obedient only to
      some cosmic calculus, lay as a serene curtain against which the quaint
      flamboyance of the Boardwalk was all the more amusing. The clear rim of
      sea curving off into space drew him with painful curiosity. Here at last
      was what he had needed. The proud waters went over his soul. Here indeed
      the blue began.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked down at Miss Airedale, who had gone to sleep while waiting for
      him to say something. He tiptoed away and went to his room to write down
      some ideas. Against the wide challenge of that blue hemisphere, where half
      the world lay open and free to the eye, the Bishop's prohibition lost
      weight. He was resolved to preach a sermon.
    </p>
    <p>
      At dusk he met Miss Airedale on the high balcony that runs around the
      reading-room of the hotel. They were quite alone up there. Along the
      Boardwalk, in the pale sentimental twilight, the translucent electric
      globes shone like a long string of pearls. She was very tempting in a gay
      evening frock, and reproached him for having neglected her. She shivered a
      little in the cool wind coming off the darkening water. The weakness of
      the hour was upon him. He put his arm tenderly round her as they leaned
      over the parapet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See those darling children down on the sand,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I do adore
      puppies, don't you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He remembered Groups, Bunks, and Yelpers. Nothing is so potent as the love
      of children when you are away from them. She gazed languishing at him; he
      responded with a generous pressure. But his alarmed soul thrilled with
      panic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must excuse me a moment, while I dress for dinner,&rdquo; he said. He was
      strangely terrified by the look of secret understanding in her beautiful
      eyes. It seemed to imply some subtle, inexpressible pact. As a matter of
      truth, she was unconscious of it: it was only the old demiurge speaking in
      her; the old demiurge which was pursuing him just as ardently as he was
      trailing the dissolving blue of his dream. But he was much agitated as he
      went down in the elevator.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;are we all only toys in the power of these
      terrific instincts?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For the first time he was informed of the infinite feminine capacity for
      being wooed.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night they danced in the Submarine Grill. She floated in his embrace
      with triumphant lightness. Her eyes, utilized as temporary lamps by a
      lighting-circuit of which she was quite unaware, beamed with happy lustre.
      The lay reader, always docile to the necessities of occasion, murmured
      delightful trifles. But his private thoughts were as aloof and shining and
      evasive as the goldfish that twinkled in the glass pool overhead. He
      picked up her scarf and her handkerchief when she dropped them. He smiled
      vaguely when she suggested that she thought she could persuade Mr.
      Airedale to stay in Atlantic City over the week-end, and why worry about
      the service on Sunday? But when she and the yawning Mrs. Airedale had
      retired, he hastened to his chamber and packed his bag. Stealthily he went
      to the desk and explained that he was leaving unexpectedly on business,
      and that the bill should go to Mr. Airedale, whose guest he had been. He
      slipped away out of the side door, and caught the late train. Mrs.
      Airedale chafed her daughter that night for whining in her sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER TWELVE
    </h2>
    <p>
      The chapel of St. Spitz was crowded that fine Sunday morning, and the
      clang and thud of its bells came merrily through the thin quick air to
      worshippers arriving in their luxurious motors. The amiable oddity of the
      lay reader's demeanour as priest had added a zest to churchgoing. The
      congregation were particularly pleased, on this occasion, to see Gissing
      appear in surplice and stole. They had felt that his attire on the
      previous Sundays had been a little too informal. And when, at the time
      usually allotted to the sermon, Gissing climbed the pulpit steps, unfurled
      a sheaf of manuscript, and gazed solemnly about, they settled back into
      the pew cushions in a comfortable, receptive mood. They had a subconscious
      feeling that if their souls were to be saved, it was better to have it
      done with all the proper formalities. They did not notice that he was
      rather pale, and that his nose twitched nervously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friends,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in this beautiful little chapel, on this airy
      hilltop, one might, if anywhere, speak with complete honesty. For you who
      gather here for worship are, in the main, people of great affairs;
      accustomed to looking at life with high spirit and with quick imagination.
      I will ask you then to be patient with me while I exhort you to carry into
      your religion the same enterprising and ambitious gusto that has made your
      worldly careers a success. You are accustomed to deal with great affairs.
      Let me talk to you about the Great Affairs of God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing had been far too agitated to be able to recognize any particular
      members of his audience. All the faces were fused into a common blur. Miss
      Airedale, he knew, was in the organ loft, but he had not seen her since
      his flight from Atlantic City, for he had removed from the Airedale
      mansion before her return, and had made himself a bed in the corner of the
      vestry-room. He feared she was angry: there had been a vigorous growling
      note in some of the bass pipes of the organ as she played the opening
      hymn. He had not seen a tall white-haired figure who came into the chapel
      rather late, after the service had begun, and took a seat at the back.
      Bishop Borzoi had seized the opportunity to drive out to Dalmatian Heights
      this morning to see how his protege was getting on. When the Bishop saw
      his lay reader appear in surplice and scarlet hood, he was startled. But
      when the amateur parson actually ascended the pulpit, the Bishop's face
      was a study. The hair on the back of his neck bristled slightly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is so easy,&rdquo; Gissing continued, &ldquo;to let life go by us in its swift
      amusing course, that sometimes it hardly seems worth while to attempt any
      bold strokes for truth. Truth, of course, does not need our assistance; it
      can afford to ignore our errors. But in this quiet place, among the
      whisper of the trees, I seem to have heard a disconcerting sound. I have
      heard laughter, and I think it is the laughter of God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The congregation stirred a little, with polite uneasiness. This was not
      quite the sort of thing to which they were accustomed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should God laugh? I think it is because He sees that very often, when
      we pretend to be worshipping Him, we are really worshipping and gratifying
      ourselves. I used the phrase 'Great Affairs.' The point I want to make is
      that God deals with far greater affairs than we have realized. We have
      imagined Him on too petty a scale. If God is so great, we must approach
      Him in a spirit of greatness. He is not interested in trivialities&mdash;trivialities
      of ritual, of creed, of ceremony. We have imagined a vain thing&mdash;a
      God of our own species; merely adding to the conception, to gild and
      consecrate, a futile fuzbuz of supernaturalism. My friends, the God I
      imagine is something more than a formula on Sundays and an oath during the
      week.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Those sitting in the rear of the Chapel were startled to hear a low
      rumbling sound proceeding from the diaphragm of the Bishop, who half rose
      from his seat and then, by a great effort of will, contained himself. But
      Gissing, rapt in his honourable speculations, continued with growing
      happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask you, though probably in vain, to lay aside for the moment your
      inherited timidities and conventions. I ask you to lay aside pride, which
      is the devil itself and the cause of most unhappiness. I ask you to rise
      to the height of a great conception. To 'magnify' God is a common phrase
      in our observances. Then let us truly magnify Him&mdash;not minify, as the
      theologians do. If God is anything more than a social fetich, then He must
      be so much more that He includes and explains everything. It may sound
      inconceivable to you, it may sound sacrilegious, but I suggest to you that
      it is even possible God may be a biped&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Bishop could restrain himself no longer. He rose with flaming eyes and
      stood in the aisle. Mr. Airedale, Mr. Dobermann-Pinscher, and several
      other prominent members of the Church burst into threatening growls. A
      wild bark and clamour broke from Mr. Towser, the Sunday School
      superintendent, and his pupils, who sat in the little gallery over the
      door. And then, to Gissing's horror and amazement, Mr. Poodle appeared
      from behind a pillar where he had been chafing unseen. In a fierce tenor
      voice shaken with indignation he cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heretic and hypocrite! Pay no attention to his abominable nonsense! He
      deserted his family to lead a life of pleasure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seize him!&rdquo; cried the Bishop in a voice of thunder.
    </p>
    <p>
      The church was now in an uproar. A shrill yapping sounded among the choir.
      Mrs. Airedale swooned; the Bishop's progress up the aisle was impeded by a
      number of ladies hastening for an exit. Old Mr. Dingo, the sexton, seized
      the bell-rope in the porch and set up a furious pealing. Cries of rage
      mingled with hysterical howls from the ladies. Gissing, trembling with
      horror, surveyed the atrocious hubbub. But it was high time to move, or
      his retreat would be cut off. He abandoned his manuscript and bounded down
      the pulpit stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unfrock him!&rdquo; yelled Mr. Poodle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's never been frocked!&rdquo; roared the Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impostor!&rdquo; cried Mr. Airedale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excommunicate him!&rdquo; screamed Mr. Towser.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take him before the consistory!&rdquo; shouted Mr. Poodle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing started toward the vestry door, but was delayed by the mass of
      scuffling choir-puppies who had seized this uncomprehended diversion as a
      chance to settle some scores of their own. The clamour was maddening. The
      Bishop leapt the chancel rail and was about to seize him when Miss
      Airedale, loyal to the last, interposed. She flung herself upon the
      Bishop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Run, run!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;They'll kill you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing profited by this assistance. He pushed over the lectern upon Mr.
      Poodle, who was clutching at his surplice. He checked Mr. Airedale by
      hurling little Tommy Bull, one of the choir, bodily at him. Tommy's teeth
      fastened automatically upon Mr. Airedale's ear. The surplice, which Mr.
      Poodle was still holding, parted with a rip, and Gissing was free. With a
      yell of defiance he tore through the vestry and round behind the chapel.
    </p>
    <p>
      He could not help pausing a moment to scan the amazing scene, which had
      been all Sabbath calm a few moments before. From the long line of motor
      cars parked outside the chapel incredible chauffeurs were leaping,
      hurrying to see what had happened. The shady grove shook with the hideous
      clamour of the bell, still wildly tolled by the frantic sexton. The sudden
      excitement had liberated private quarrels long decently repressed: in the
      porch Mrs. Retriever and Mrs. Dobermann-Pinscher were locked in combat.
      With a splintering crash one of the choir-pups came sailing through a
      stained-glass window, evidently thrown by some infuriated adult. He
      recognized the voice of Mr. Towser, raised in vigorous lamentation. To
      judge by the sound, Mr. Towser's pupils had turned upon him and were
      giving him a bad time. Above all he could hear the clear war-cry of Miss
      Airedale and the embittered yells of Mr. Poodle. Then from the quaking
      edifice burst Bishop Borzoi, foaming with wrath, his clothes much
      tattered, and followed by Mr. Poodle, Mr. Airedale, and several others.
      They cast about for a moment, and then the Bishop saw him. With a joint
      halloo they launched toward him.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no time to lose. He fled down the shady path between the trees,
      but with a hopeless horror in his heart. He could not long outdistance
      such a runner as the Bishop, whose tremendous strides would surely
      overhaul him in the end. If only he had known how to drive a car, he might
      have commandeered one of the long row waiting by the gate. But he was no
      motorist. Miss Airedale could have saved him, in her racing roadster, but
      she had not emerged from the melee in the chapel. Perhaps the Bishop had
      bitten her. His blood warmed with anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened that they had been mending the county highways, and a large
      steam roller stood a few hundred feet down the road, drawn up beside the
      ditch. Gissing knew that it was customary to leave these engines with the
      fire banked and a gentle pressure of steam simmering in the boiler. It was
      his only chance, and he seized it. But to his dismay, when he reached the
      machine, which lay just round a bend in the road, he found it shrouded
      with a huge tarpaulin. However, this suggested a desperate chance. He
      whipped nimbly inside the covering and hid in the coal-box. Lying there,
      he heard the chase go panting by.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as he dared, he climbed out, stripped off the canvas, and gazed at
      the bulky engine. It was one of those very tall and impressive rollers
      with a canopy over the top. The machinery was not complicated, and the
      ingenuity of desperation spurred him on. Hurriedly he opened the draughts
      in the fire-box, shook up the coals, and saw the needle begin to quiver on
      the pressure-gauge. He experimented with one or two levers and handles.
      The first one he touched let off a loud scream from the whistle. Then he
      discovered the throttle. He opened it a few notches, cautiously. The
      ponderous machine, with a horrible clanking and grinding, began to move
      forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      A steam roller may seem the least helpful of all vehicles in which to
      conduct an urgent flight; but Gissing's reasoning was sound. In the first
      place, no one would expect to find a hunted fugitive in this lumbering,
      sluggish behemoth of the road. Secondly, sitting perched high up in the
      driving saddle, right under the canopy, he was not easily seen by the
      casual passer-by. And thirdly, if the pursuit came to close grips, he was
      still in a strategic position. For this, the most versatile of all
      land-machines except the military tank, can move across fields, crash
      through underbrush, and travel in a hundred places that would stall a
      motor car. He rumbled off down the road somewhat exhilarated. He found the
      scarlet stole twisted round his neck, and tied it to one of the stanchions
      of the canopy as a flag of defiance. It was not long before he saw the
      posse of pursuit returning along the road, very hot and angry. He crunched
      along solemnly, busying himself to get up a strong head of steam. There
      they were, the Bishop, Mr. Poodle, Mr. Airedale, Mr. Dobermann-Pinscher,
      and Mr. Towser. Mr. Poodle was talking excitedly: the Bishop's tongue ran
      in and out over his gleaming teeth. He was not saying much, but his manner
      was full of deadly wrath. They paid no attention to the roller, and were
      about to pass it without even looking up, when Gissing, in a sudden fit of
      indignation, gave the wheel a quick twirl and turned his clumsy engine
      upon them. They escaped only by a hair's breadth from being flattened out
      like pastry. Then the Bishop, looking up, recognized the renegade. With a
      cry of anger they all leaped at the roller.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he was so high above them, they had no chance. He seized the
      coal-scoop and whanged Mr. Poodle across the skull. The Bishop came
      dangerously near reaching him, but Gissing released a jet of scalding
      steam from an exhaust-cock, which gave the impetuous prelate much cause
      for grief. A lump of coal, accurately thrown, discouraged Mr. Airedale.
      Mr. Towser, attacking on the other side of the engine, managed to scramble
      up so high that he carried away the embroidered stole, but otherwise the
      fugitive had all the best of it. Mr. Dobermann-Pinscher burned his feet
      trying to climb up the side of the boiler. From the summit of his uncouth
      vehicle Gissing looked down undismayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miserable freethinker!&rdquo; said Borzoi. &ldquo;You shall be tried by the assembly
      of bishops.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a mere lay reader,&rdquo; quoted Gissing, &ldquo;a slight laxity is allowable. You
      had better go back and calm down the congregation, or they'll tear the
      chapel to bits. This kind of thing will have a very bad influence on
      church discipline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They shouted additional menace, but Gissing had already started his
      deafening machinery and could not hear what was said. He left them
      bickering by the roadside.
    </p>
    <p>
      For fear of further pursuit, he turned off the highway a little beyond,
      and rumbled noisily down a rustic lane between high banks and hedges where
      sumac was turning red. Strangely enough, there was something very
      comforting about his enormous crawling contraption. It was docile and
      reliable, like an elephant. The crashing clangour of its movement was soon
      forgotten&mdash;became, in fact, an actual stimulus to thought. For the
      mere pleasure of novelty, he steered through a copse, and took joy in
      seeing the monster thrash its way through thickets and brambles, and then
      across a field of crackling stubble. Steering toward the lonelier regions
      of that farming country, presently he halted in a dingle of birches beside
      a small pond. He spent some time very happily, carefully studying the
      machinery. He found some waste and an oilcan in the tool-chest, and
      polished until the metal shone. The water looked rather low in the gauge,
      and he replenished it from the pool.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was while grooming the roller that it struck him his own appearance was
      unusual for a highway mechanic. He was still wearing the famous
      floorwalker suit, which he had punctiliously donned every Sunday for
      chapel. But he had had to flee without a hat&mdash;even without his
      luggage, which was neatly packed in a bag in the vestry. That, he felt
      sure, Mr. Poodle had already burst open for evidences of heresy and
      schism. The pearly trousers were stained with oil and coal-dust; the neat
      cutaway coat bore smears of engine-grease. As long as he stuck to the
      roller and the telltale garments, pursuit and identification would of
      course be easy enough. But he had taken a fancy to the machine: he decided
      not to abandon it yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Obviously it was better to keep to the roads, where the engine would at
      any rate be less surprisingly conspicuous, and where it would leave no
      trail. So he made a long circuit across meadows and pastures, carrying a
      devilish clamour into the quiet Sunday afternoon. Regaining a macadam
      surface, he set oil at random, causing considerable annoyance to the
      motoring public. Finding that his cutaway coat caused jeers and merriment,
      he removed it; and when any one showed a disposition to inquire, he
      explained that he was doing penance for an ill-judged wager. His
      oscillating perch above the boiler was extraordinarily warm, and he bought
      a gallon jug of cider from a farmer by the way. Cheering himself with
      this, and reviewing in his mind the queer experiences of the past months,
      he went thundering mildly on.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first he had feared a furious pursuit on the part of the Bishop, or
      even a whole college of bishops, quickly mobilized for the event. He had
      imagined them speeding after him in a huge motor-bus, and himself keeping
      them at bay with lumps of coal. But gradually he realized that the Bishop
      would not further jeopardize his dignity, or run the risk of making
      himself ridiculous. Mr. Poodle would undoubtedly set the township road
      commissioner on his trail, and he would be liable to seizure for the theft
      of a steam roller. But that could hardly happen so quickly. In the
      meantime, a plan had been forming in his mind, but it would require
      darkness for its execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      Darkness did not delay in coming. As he jolted cheerfully from road to
      road, holding up long strings of motors at every corner while he jovially
      held out his arm as a sign that he was going to turn, dark purple clouds
      were massing and piling up. Foreseeing a storm, he bought some provisions
      at a roadhouse, and turned into a field, where he camped in the lee of a
      forest of birches. He cooked himself an excellent supper, toasting bread
      and frankfurters in the firebox of the roller. With boiling water from a
      steam-cock he brewed a panikin of tea; and sat placidly admiring the
      fawn-pink light on wide pampas of bronze grasses, tawny as a panther's
      hide. A strong wind began to draw from the southeast. He lit the lantern
      at the rear of the machine and by the time the rain came hissing upon the
      hot boiler, he was ready. Luckily he had saved the tarpaulin. He spread
      this on the ground underneath the roller, and curled up in it. The glow
      from the firebox kept him warm and dry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Summer is over,&rdquo; he said to himself, as he heard the clash and spouting
      of rain all about him. He lay for some time, not sleepy, thinking
      theology, and enjoying the close tumult of wind and weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      People who have had an arm or a leg amputated, he reflected, say they can
      still feel pains in the absent member. Well, there's an analogy in that.
      Modern skepticism has amputated God from the heart; but there is still a
      twinge where the arteries were sewn up.
    </p>
    <p>
      He slept peacefully until about two in the morning, except when a red-hot
      coal, slipping through the grate-bars, burned a lamentable hole in his
      trousers. When he woke, the night still dripped, but was clear aloft. He
      started the engine and drove cautiously, along black slippery roads, to
      Mr. Poodle's house. In spite of the unavoidable racket, no one stirred: he
      surmised that the curate slept soundly after the crises of the day. He
      left the engine by the doorstep, pinning a note to the steering-wheel. It
      said:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   TO REV. J. ROVER POODLE
    this useful steam-roller
  as a symbol of the theological mind

                   MR. GISSING
</pre>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      The steamship Pomerania, which had sailed at noon, was a few hours out of
      port on a calm gray sea. The passengers, after the bustle of lunch and
      arranging their staterooms; had settled into their deck chairs and were
      telling each other how much they loved the ocean. Captain Scottie had
      taken his afternoon constitutional on his private strip of starboard deck
      just aft the bridge, and was sitting in his comfortable cabin expecting a
      cup of tea. He was a fine old sea-dog: squat, grizzled, severe, with wiry
      eyebrows, a short coarse beard, and watchful quick eyes. A characteristic
      Scot, beneath his reticent conscientious dignity there was abundant humour
      and affection. He would have been recognized anywhere as a sailor: those
      short solid legs were perfectly adapted for balancing on a rolling deck.
      He stood by habit as though he were leaning into a stiff gale. His mouth
      always held a pipe, which he smoked in short, brisk whiffs, as though
      expecting to be interrupted at any moment by an iceberg.
    </p>
    <p>
      The steward brought in the tea-tray, and Captain Scottie settled into his
      large armchair to enjoy it. His eye glanced automatically at the
      barometer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little wind to-night,&rdquo; he said, his nose wrinkling unconsciously as the
      cover was lifted from the dish of hot anchovy toast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; said the steward, but lingered, apparently anxious to speak
      further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Shepherd?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beg pardon, sir, but the Chief Steward wanted me to say they've found
      someone stowed away in the linen locker, sir. Queer kind of fellow, sir,
      talks a bit like a padre. 'E must've come aboard by the engine-room
      gangway, sir, and climbed into that locker near the barber shop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The problem of stowaways is familiar enough to shipmasters. &ldquo;Send him up
      to me,&rdquo; said the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few minutes later Gissing appeared, escorted by a burly quartermaster.
      Even the experienced Captain admitted to himself that this was something
      new in the category of stowaways. Never before had he seen one in a
      braided cutaway coat and wedding trousers. It was true that the garments
      were in grievous condition, but they were worn with an air. The stowaway's
      face showed some embarrassment, but not at all the usual hangdog mien of
      such wastrels. Involuntarily his tongue moistened when he saw the tray of
      tea (for he had not eaten since his supper on the steam roller the night
      before), but he kept his eyes politely averted from the food. They rose to
      a white-painted girder that ran athwart the cabin ceiling. CERTIFIED TO
      ACCOMMODATE THE MASTER he read there, in letters deeply incised into the
      thick paint. &ldquo;A good Christian ship,&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;It sounds like
      the Y. M. C. A.&rdquo; He was pleased to think that his suspicion was already
      confirmed: ships were more religious than anything on land.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Captain dismissed the quartermaster, and addressed himself sternly to
      the culprit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what have you to say for yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Please, Captain,&rdquo; said Gissing politely, &ldquo;do not allow your tea to get
      cold. I can talk while you eat.&rdquo; Behind his grim demeanour the Captain was
      very near to smiling at this naivete. No Briton is wholly implacable at
      tea-time, and he felt a genuine curiosity about this unusual offender.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was your idea in coming aboard?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Do you know that I can
      put you in irons until we get across, and then have you sent home for
      punishment? I suppose it's the old story: you want to go sight-seeing on
      the other side?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Captain,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;I have come to sea to study theology.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In spite of himself the Captain was touched by this amazing statement. He
      was a Scot, as we have said. He poured a cup of tea to conceal his
      astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Theology!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;The theology of hard work is what you will find
      most of aboard ship. Carry on and do your duty; keep a sharp lookout, all
      gear shipshape, salute the bridge when going on watch, that is the whole
      duty of a good officer. That's plenty theology for a seaman.&rdquo; But the
      skipper's eye turned brightly toward his bookshelves, where he had several
      volumes of sermons, mostly of a Calvinist sort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not afraid of work,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;But I'm looking for horizons. In
      my work ashore I never could find any.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your horizon is likely to be peeling potatoes in the galley,&rdquo; remarked
      the Captain. &ldquo;I understand they are short-handed there. Or sweeping out
      bunks in the steerage. Ethics of the dust! What would you say to that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; replied Gissing, &ldquo;I shall be grateful for any task, however menial,
      that permits me to meditate. I understand your point of view. By coming
      aboard your ship I have broken the law, I have committed a crime; but not
      a sin. Crime and sin, every theologian admits, are not coextensive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Captain sailed head-on into argument.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Are you aware of the doctrine of Moral Inability in a
      Fallen State? Sit down, sit down, and have a cup of tea. We must discuss
      this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rang for the steward and ordered an extra cup and a fresh supply of
      toast. At that moment Gissing heard two quick strokes of a bell, rung
      somewhere forward, a clear, musical, melancholy tone, echoed promptly in
      other parts of the ship. &ldquo;What is that, Captain?&rdquo; he asked anxiously. &ldquo;An
      accident?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two bells in the first dog-watch,&rdquo; said the Captain. &ldquo;I fear you are as
      much a lubber at sea as you are in theology.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next two hours passed like a flash. Gissing found the skipper, in
      spite of his occasional moods of austerity, a delicious companion. They
      discussed Theosophy, Spiritualism, and Christian Science, all of which the
      Captain, with sturdy but rather troubled vehemence, linked with Primitive
      Magic. Gissing, seeing that his only hope of establishing himself in the
      sailor's regard was to disagree and keep the argument going, plunged into
      psycho-analysis and the philosophy of the unconscious. Rather unwarily he
      ventured to introduce a nautical illustration into the talk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your compass needle,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;points to the North Pole, and although it
      has never been to the Pole, and cannot even conceive of it, yet it
      testifies irresistibly to the existence of such a place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust you navigate your soul more skilfully than you would navigate
      this vessel,&rdquo; retorted the Captain. &ldquo;In the first place, the needle does
      not point to the North Pole at all, but to the magnetic pole. Furthermore,
      it has to be adjusted by magnets to counteract deviation. Mr. Gissing, you
      may be a sincere student of theology, but you have not allowed for your
      own temperamental deviation. Why, even the gyro compass has to be adjusted
      for latitude error. You landsmen think that a ship is simply a floating
      hotel. I should like to have the Bishop you spoke of study a little
      navigation. That would put into him a healthy respect for the marvels of
      science. On board ship, sir, the binnacle is kept locked and the key is on
      the watch-chain of the master. It should be so in all intellectual
      matters. Confide them to those capable of understanding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing saw that the Captain greatly relished his sense of superiority, so
      he made a remark of intentional simplicity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The binnacle?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I thought that was the little shellfish that
      clings to the bottom of the boat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't you dare call my ship a BOAT!&rdquo; said the Captain. &ldquo;At sea, a boat
      means only a lifeboat or some other small vagabond craft. Come out on the
      bridge and I'll show you a thing or two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The evening had closed in hazy, and the Pomerania swung steadily in a long
      plunging roll. At the weather wing of the bridge, gazing sharply over the
      canvas dodger, was Mr. Pointer, the vigilant Chief Officer, peering off
      rigidly, as though mesmerized, but saying nothing. He gave the Captain a
      courteous salute, but kept silence. At the large mahogany wheel, gently
      steadying it to the quarterly roll of the sea, stood Dane, a tall, solemn
      quartermaster. In spite of a little uneasiness, due to the unfamiliar
      motion, Gissing was greatly elated by the wheelhouse, which seemed even
      more thrillingly romantic than any pulpit. Uncomprehendingly, but with
      admiration, he examined the binnacle, the engine-room telegraphs, the
      telephones, the rack of signal-flags, the buttons for closing the
      bulkheads, and the rotating clear-view screen for lookout in thick
      weather. Aloft he could see the masthead light, gently soaring in slow
      arcs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll show you my particular pride,&rdquo; said the Captain, evidently pleased
      by his visitor's delighted enthusiasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing wondered what ingenious device of science this might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Scottie stepped to the weather gunwale of the bridge. He pointed
      to the smoke, which was rolling rapidly from the funnels.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;there's quite a strong breeze blowing. But look
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lit a match and held it unshielded above the canvas screen which was
      lashed along the front of the bridge. To Gissing's surprise it burned
      steadily, without blowing out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've invented a convex wind-shield which splits the air just forward of
      the bridge. I can stand here and light my pipe in the stiffest gale,
      without any trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the decks below Gissing heard a bugle blowing gaily, a bright,
      persuasive sound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Six bells,&rdquo; the Captain said. &ldquo;I must dress for dinner. Before I start
      you potato-peeling, I should like to clear up that little discussion of
      ours about Free Will. One or two things you said interested me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paced the bridge for a minute, thinking hard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll test your sincerity,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;To-night you can bunk in the
      chart-room. I'll have some dinner sent up to you. I wish you would write
      me an essay of, say, two thousand words on the subject of Necessity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment Gissing pondered whether it would not be better to be put in
      irons and rationed with bread and water. The wind was freshening, and the
      Pomerania's sharp bow slid heavily into broad hills of sea, crashing them
      into crumbling rollers of suds which fell outward and hissed along her
      steep sides. The silent Mr. Pointer escorted him into the chart-room, a
      bare, businesslike place with a large table, a map-cabinet, and a settee.
      Here, presently, a steward appeared with excellent viands, and a pen, ink,
      and notepaper. After a cautious meal, Gissing felt more comfortable. There
      is something about a wet, windy evening at sea that turns the mind
      naturally toward metaphysics. He pushed away the dishes and began to
      write.
    </p>
    <p>
      Later in the evening the Captain reappeared. He looked pleased when he saw
      a number of sheets already covered with script.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rum lot of passengers this trip,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I don't seem to see any who
      look interesting. All Big Business and that sort of thing. I must say it's
      nice to have someone who can talk about books, and so on, once in a
      while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing realized that sometimes a shipmaster's life must be a lonely one.
      The weight of responsibility is always upon him; etiquette prevents his
      becoming familiar with his officers; small wonder if he pines occasionally
      for a little congenial talk to relieve his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Big Business, did you say?&rdquo; Gissing remarked. &ldquo;Ah, I could write you
      quite an essay about that. I used to be General Manager of Beagle and
      Company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come into my cabin and have a liqueur,&rdquo; said the skipper. &ldquo;Let the essay
      go until to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Captain turned on the electric stove in his cabin, for the night was
      cold. It was a snug sanctum: at the portholes were little chintz curtains;
      over the bunk was a convenient reading lamp. On the wall a brass pendulum
      swung slowly, registering the roll of the ship. The ruddy shine of the
      stove lit up the orderly desk and the photographs of the Captain's family.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yours?&rdquo; said Gissing, looking at a group of three puppies with droll
      Scottish faces. &ldquo;Aye,&rdquo; said the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've three of my own,&rdquo; said Gissing, with a private pang of homesickness.
      The skipper's cosy quarters were the most truly domestic he had seen since
      the evening he first fled from responsibility.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Scottie was surprised. Certainly this eccentric stranger in the
      badly damaged wedding garments had not given the impression of a family
      head. Just then the steward entered with a decanter of Benedictine and
      small glasses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brew days and bonny!&rdquo; said the Captain, raising his crystal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Secure amidst perils!&rdquo; replied Gissing courteously. It was the phrase
      engraved upon the ship's notepaper, on which he had been writing, and it
      had impressed itself on his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said you had been a General Manager.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing told, with some vivacity, of his experiences in the world of
      trade. The Captain poured another small liqueur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're fine halesome liquor,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sincerely yours,&rdquo; said Gissing, nodding over the glass. He was beginning
      to feel quite at home in the navigating quarters of the ship, and hoped
      the potato-peeling might be postponed as long as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How far had you got in your essay?&rdquo; asked the Captain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not very far, I fear. I was beginning by laying down a few psychological
      fundamentals.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excellent! Will you read it to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing went to get his manuscript, and read it aloud. The Captain
      listened attentively, puffing clouds of smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry this is such a short voyage,&rdquo; he said when Gissing finished.
      &ldquo;You have approached the matter from an entirely naif and instinctive
      standpoint, and it will take some time to show you your errors. Before I
      demolish your arguments I should like to turn them over in my mind. I will
      reduce my ideas to writing and then read them to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like nothing better,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;And I can think over the
      subject more carefully while I peel the potatoes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense,&rdquo; said the Captain. &ldquo;I do not often get a chance to discuss
      theology. I will tell you my idea. You spoke of your experience as General
      Manager, when you had charge of a thousand employees. One of the things we
      need on this ship is a staff-captain, to take over the management of the
      personnel. That would permit me to concentrate entirely on navigation. In
      a vessel of this size it is wrong that the master should have to carry the
      entire responsibility.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rang for the steward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My compliments to Mr. Pointer, and tell him to come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pointer appeared shortly in oilskins, saluted, and gazed fixedly at
      his superior, with one foot raised upon the brass door-sill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Pointer,&rdquo; said Captain Scottie, &ldquo;I have appointed Captain Gissing
      staff-captain. Take orders from him as you would from me. He will have
      complete charge of the ship's discipline.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aye, aye, sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Pointer, stood a moment intently to see if there
      were further orders, saluted again, and withdrew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you had better turn in,&rdquo; said the skipper. &ldquo;Of course you must wear
      uniform. I'll send the tailor up to you at once. He can remodel one of my
      suits overnight. The trousers will have to be lengthened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the chart-room sofa, Gissing dozed and waked and dozed again. On the
      bridge near by he heard the steady tread of feet, the mysterious words of
      the officer on watch passing the course to his relief. Bells rang with
      sharp double clang. Through the open port he could hear the alternate boom
      and hiss of the sea under the bows. With the stately lift and lean of the
      ship there mingled a faint driving vibration.
    </p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      The first morning in any new environment is always the most exciting.
      Gissing was already awake, and watching the novel sight of a patch of
      sunshine sliding to and fro on the deck of the chart-room, when there was
      a gentle tap at the door. The Captain's steward entered, carrying a
      handsome uniform.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Six bells, sir,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Your bath is laid on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing was not very sure just what time it was, but the steward held out
      a dressing gown for him to slip on, so he took the hint, and followed him
      to the Captain's private bathroom where he plunged gaily into warm salt
      water. He was hardly dressed before breakfast was laid for him in the
      chart-room. It was a breakfast greatly to his liking&mdash;porridge,
      scrambled eggs, grilled kidneys and bacon, coffee, toast, and marmalade.
      Evidently the hardships of sea life had been greatly exaggerated by
      fiction writers.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a trifle bashful about appearing on the bridge in his blue and
      brass formality, and waited a while thinking Captain Scottie might come.
      But no one disturbed him, so by and bye he went out. It was a brisk
      morning with a fresh breeze and plenty of whitecaps. Dancing rainbows
      hovered about the bow when an occasional explosion of spray burst up into
      sunlight. Mr. Pointer was on the bridge, still gazing steadily into the
      distance. He saluted Gissing, but said nothing. The quartermaster at the
      wheel also saluted in silence. A seaman wiping down the paintwork on the
      deckhouse saluted. Gissing returned these gestures punctiliously, and
      began to pace the bridge from side to side. He soon grew accustomed to the
      varying slant of the deck, and felt that his footing showed a nautical
      assurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now for the first time he enjoyed an untrammelled horizon on all sides.
      The sea, he observed, was not really blue&mdash;not at any rate the blue
      he had supposed. Where it seethed flatly along the hull, laced with swirls
      of milky foam, it was almost black. Farther away, it was green, or darkly
      violet. A ladder led to the top of the charthouse, and from this
      commanding height the whole body of the ship lay below him. How alive she
      seemed, how full of personality! The strong funnels, the tall masts that
      moved so delicately against the pale open sky, the distant stern that now
      dipped low in a comfortable hollow, and now soared and threshed onward
      with a swimming thrust, the whole vital organism spoke to the eye and the
      imagination. In the centre of this vast circle she moved, royal and
      serene. She was more beautiful than the element she rode on, for perhaps
      there was something meaningless in that pure vacant round of sea and sky.
      Once its immense azure was grasped and noted, it brought nothing to the
      mind. Reason was indignant to conceive it, sloping endlessly away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The placid, beautifully planned routine of shipboard passed on its
      accustomed course, and he began to suspect that his staff-captaincy was a
      sinecure. Down below he could see the passengers briskly promenading, or
      drowsing under their rugs. On the hurricane deck, aft, a sailor was
      chalking a shuffleboard court. It occurred to him that all this might
      become monotonous unless he found some actual part in it. Just then
      Captain Scottie appeared on the bridge, took a quick look round, and
      joined him on top of the charthouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good morning!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You won't think me rude if you don't see much of
      me? Thinking about those ideas of yours, I have come upon some rather
      puzzling stuff. I must work the whole thing out more clearly. Your
      suggestion that Conscience points the way to an integration of personality
      into a higher type of divinity, seems to me off the track; but I haven't
      quite downed it yet. I'm going to shut myself up to-day and consider the
      matter. I leave you in charge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be perfectly happy,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;Please don't worry about me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You suggest that all the conditions of life at sea, our mastery of the
      forces of Nature, and so on, seem to show that we have perfect freedom of
      will, and adapt everything to our desires. I believe just the contrary.
      The forces of Nature compel us to approach them in their own way,
      otherwise we are shipwrecked. It is in the conditions of Nature that this
      ship should reach port in eight days, otherwise we should get nowhere. We
      do it because it is our destiny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not so sure of that,&rdquo; said Gissing. But the Captain had already
      departed with a clouded brow.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the chart-room roof Gissing had discovered an alluring instrument, the
      exact use of which he did not know. It seemed to be some kind of steering
      control. The dial was lettered, from left to right, as follows HARD A
      PORT, PORT, STEADY, COURSE, STEADY, STARBD, HARD A STARBD. At present the
      handle stood upon the section marked COURSE. After a careful study of the
      whole seascape, it seemed to Gissing that off to the south the ocean
      looked more blue and more interesting. After some hesitation he moved the
      handle to the PORT mark, and waited to see what would happen. To his
      delight he saw the bow swing slowly round, and the Pomerania's gleaming
      wake spread behind her in a whitened curve. He descended to the bridge, a
      little nervous as to what Mr. Pointer might say, but he found the Mate
      gazing across the water with the same fierce and unwearying attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have changed the course,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pointer saluted, but said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having succeeded so far, Gissing ventured upon another innovation. He had
      been greatly tempted by the wheel, and envied the stolid quartermaster who
      was steering. So, assuming an air of calm certainty, he entered the
      wheelhouse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll take her for a while,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aye, aye, sir,&rdquo; said the quartermaster, and surrendered the wheel to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might string out a few flags,&rdquo; Gissing said. He had been noticing the
      bright signal buntings in the rack, and thought it a pity not to use them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like to see a ship well dressed,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aye, aye, sir,&rdquo; said Dane. &ldquo;Any choice, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing picked out a string of flags which were particularly lively in
      colour-scheme, and had them hoisted. Then he gave his attention to the
      wheel. He found it quite an art, and was surprised to learn that a big
      ship requires so much helm. But it was very pleasant. He took care to
      steer toward patches of sea that looked interesting, and to cut into any
      particular waves that took his fancy. After an hour or so, he sighted a
      fishing schooner, and gave chase. He found it so much fun to run close
      beside her (taking care to pass to leeward, so as not to cut off her wind)
      that a mile farther on he turned and steered a neat circle about the
      bewildered craft. The Pomerania's passengers were greatly interested, and
      lined the rails trying to make out what the fishermen were shouting. The
      captain of the schooner seemed particularly agitated, kept waving at the
      signal flags and barking through a megaphone. During these manoeuvres Mr.
      Pointer gazed so hard at the horizon that Gissing felt a bit embarrassed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought it wise to find out exactly what our turning-circle is,&rdquo; he
      said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Pointer saluted. He was a well-trained officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Late in the afternoon the Captain reappeared, looking more cheerful.
      Gissing was still at the helm, which he found so fascinating he would not
      relinquish it. He had ordered his tea served on a little stand beside the
      wheel so that he could drink it while he steered. &ldquo;Hullo!&rdquo; said the
      Captain. &ldquo;I see you've changed the course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seemed best to do so,&rdquo; said Gissing firmly. He felt that to show any
      weakness at this point would be fatal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well, probably it doesn't matter. I'm coming round to some of your
      ideas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing saw that this would never do. Unless he could keep the master
      disturbed by philosophic doubts, Scottie would expect to resume command of
      the ship.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I've been thinking about it, too. I believe I went a bit
      too far. But what do you think about this? Do you believe that Conscience
      is inherited or acquired? You sea how important that is. If Conscience is
      a kind of automatic oracle, infallible and perfect, what becomes of free
      will? And if, on the other hand, Conscience is only a laboriously trained
      perception of moral and social utilities, where does your deity come in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing was aware that this dilemma would not hold water very long, and
      was painfully impromptu; but it hit the Captain amidships.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By Jove,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that's terrible, isn't it? It's no use trying to
      carry on until I've got that under the hatch. Look here, would you mind,
      just as a favour, keep things going while I wrestle with that question?&mdash;I
      know it's asking a lot, but perhaps&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's quite all right,&rdquo; Gissing replied. &ldquo;Naturally you want to work these
      things out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Captain started to leave the bridge, but by old seafaring habit he
      cast a keen glance at the sky. He saw the bright string of code flags
      fluttering. He seemed startled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you signalling any one?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one in particular. I thought it looked better to have a few flags
      about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I daresay you're right. But better take them down if you speak a ship.
      They're rather confusing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confusing? I thought they were just to brighten things up.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have two different signals up. They read, Bubonic plague, give me a
      wide berth. Am coming to your assistance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Toward dinner time, when Gissing had left the wheel and was humming a tune
      as he walked the bridge, the steward came to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Captain's compliments, sir, and would you take his place in the
      saloon to-night? He says he's very busy writing, sir, and would take it as
      a favour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing was always obliging. There was just a hint of conscious sternness
      in his manner as he entered the Pomerania's beautiful dining saloon, for
      he wished the passengers to realize that their lives depended upon his
      prudence and sea-lore. Twice during the meal he instructed the steward to
      bring him the latest barometer reading; and after the dessert he scribbled
      a note on the back of a menu-card and had it sent to the Chief Engineer.
      It said:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Dear Chief: Please keep up a good head of steam to-night. I am expecting
      dirty weather.
    </p>
    <p>
      MR. GISSING,
    </p>
    <p>
      (Staff-Captain)
    </p>
    <p>
      What the Chief said when he received the message is not included in the
      story.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the same social aplomb that had made Gissing successful as a
      floorwalker now came to his rescue as mariner. The passengers at the
      Captain's table were amazed at his genial charm. His anecdotes of sea life
      were heartily applauded. After dinner he circulated gracefully in the
      ladies' lounge, and took coffee there surrounded by a chattering bevy. He
      organized a little impromptu concert in the music room, and when that was
      well started, slipped away to the smoke-room. Here he found a pool being
      organized as to the exact day and hour when the Pomerania would reach
      port. Appealed to for his opinion, he advised caution. On all sides he was
      in demand, for dancing, for bridge, for a recitation. At length he slipped
      away, pleading that he must keep himself fit in case of fog. The
      passengers were loud in his praise, asserting that they had never met so
      agreeable a sea-captain. One elderly lady said she remembered crossing
      with him in the old Caninia, years ago, and that he was just the same
      then.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      And so the voyage went on. Gissing was quite content to do a two-hour
      trick at the wheel both morning and afternoon, and worked out some new
      principles of steering which gave him pleasure. In the first place, he
      noticed that the shuffle-board and quoit players, on the boat deck aft,
      were occasionally annoyed by cinders from the stacks, so he made it a
      general plan to steer so that the smoke blew at right angles to the ship's
      course. As the wind was prevailingly west, this meant that his general
      trend was southerly. Whenever he saw another vessel, a mass of floating
      sea-weed, a porpoise, or even a sea-gull, he steered directly for it, and
      passed as close as possible, to have a good look at it. Even Mr. Pointer
      admitted (in the mates' mess) that he had never experienced so eventful a
      voyage. To keep the quartermasters from being idle, Gissing had them knit
      him a rope hammock to be slung in the chart-room. He felt that this would
      be more nautical than a plush settee.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a marvellous sense of power in standing at the wheel and feeling
      the great hull reply to his touch. Occasionally Captain Scottie would
      emerge from his cabin, look round with a faint surprise, and come to the
      bridge to see what was happening. Mr. Pointer would salute mutely, and
      continue to study the skyline with indignant absorption. The Captain would
      approach the wheel, where Gissing was deep in thought. Rubbing his hands,
      the Captain would say heartily, &ldquo;Well, I think I've got it all clear now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; the Captain inquired anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm bothered about the subconscious. They tell us nowadays that it's the
      subconscious mind that is really important. The more mental operations we
      can turn over to the subconscious realm, the happier we will be, and the
      more efficient. Morality, theology, and everything really worth while, as
      I understand it, spring from the subconscious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Captain's look of cheer would vanish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe there's something in that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If so,&rdquo; Gissing continued, &ldquo;then perhaps consciousness is entirely
      spurious. It seems to me that before we can get anywhere at all, we've got
      to draw the line between the conscious and the subconscious. What bothers
      me is, am I conscious of having a subconscious, or not? Sometimes I think
      I am, and then again I'm doubtful. But if I'm aware of my subconscious,
      then it isn't a genuine subconscious, and the whole thing's just another
      delusion&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Captain would knit his weather-beaten brow and again retire anxiously
      to his quarters, after begging Gissing to be generous and carry on a while
      longer. Occasionally, pacing the starboard bridge-deck, sacred to
      captains, Gissing would glance through the port and see the metaphysical
      commander bent over sheets of foolscap and thickly wreathed in pipe-smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      He himself had fallen into a kind of tranced felicity, in which these
      questions no longer had other than an ingenious interest. His heart was
      drowned in the engulfing blue. As they made their southing, wind and
      weather seemed to fall astern, the sun poured with a more golden candour.
      He stood at the wheel in a tranquil reverie, blithely steering toward some
      bright belly of cloud that had caught his fancy. Mr. Pointer shook his
      head when he glanced surreptitiously at the steering recorder, a device
      that noted graphically every movement of the rudder with a view to
      promoting economical helmsmanship. Indeed Gissing's course, as logged on
      the chart, surprised even himself, so that he forbade the officers taking
      their noon observations. When Mr. Pointer said something about isobars,
      the staff-captain replied serenely that he did not expect to find any
      polar bears in these latitudes.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had hoped privately for an occasional pirate, and scanned the sea-rim
      sharply for suspicious topsails. But the ocean, as he remarked, is not
      crowded. They proceeded, day after day, in a solitary wideness of
      unblemished colour. The ship, travelling always in the centre of this
      infinite disk, seemed strangely identified with his own itinerant spirit,
      watchful at the gist of things, alert at the point which was necessarily,
      for him, the nub of all existence. He wandered about the Pomerania's
      sagely ordered passages and found her more and more magical. She went on
      and on, with some strange urgent vitality of her own. Through the fiddleys
      on the boat deck came a hot oily breath and the steady drumming of her
      burning heart. From outer to hawse-hole, from shaft-tunnel to crow's-nest,
      he explored and loved her. In the whole of her proud, faithful, obedient
      fabric he divined honour and exultation. Poised upon uncertainty, she was
      sure. The camber of her white-scrubbed decks, the long, clean sheer of her
      hull, the concave flare of her bows&mdash;what was the amazing joy and
      rightness of these things? And yet the grotesque passengers regarded her
      only as a vehicle, to carry them sedatively to some clamouring dock.
      Fools! She was more lovely than anything they would ever see again! He
      yearned to drive her endlessly toward that unreachable perimeter of sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      On land there had been definite horizons, even if disappointing when
      reached and examined; but here there was no horizon at all. Every hour it
      slid and slid over the dark orb of sea. He lost count of time. The
      tremulous cradling of the Pomerania, steadily climbing the long leagues;
      her noble forecastle solemnly lifting against heaven, then descending with
      grave beauty into a spread of foaming beryl and snowdrift, seemed one with
      the rhythm of his pulse and heart. Perhaps there had been more than mere
      ingenuity in his last riddle for the theological skipper. Truly the
      subconscious had usurped him. Here he was almost happy, for he was almost
      unaware of life. It was all blue vacancy and suspension. The sea is the
      great answer and consoler, for it means either nothing or everything, and
      so need not tease the brain.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the passengers, though unobservant, began to murmur; especially those
      who had wagered that the Pomerania would dock on the eighth day. The world
      itself, they complained, was created in seven days, and why should so fine
      a ship take longer to cross a comparatively small ocean? Urbanely, over
      coffee and petite fours, Gissing argued with them. They were well on their
      way, he protested; and then, as a hypothetical case, he asked why one
      destination was more worth visiting than another? He even quoted
      Shakespeare on this point&mdash;something about &ldquo;ports and happy havens&rdquo;&mdash;and
      succeeded in turning the tide of conversation for a while. The mention of
      Shakespeare suggested to some of the ladies that it would be pleasant, now
      they all knew each other so well, to put on some amateur theatricals. They
      compromised by playing charades in the saloon. Another evening Gissing
      kept them amused by fireworks, which were very lovely against the dark
      sky. For this purpose he used the emergency rockets, star-shells and
      coloured flares, much to the distress of Dane, the quartermaster, who had
      charge of these supplies.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little by little, however, the querulous protests of the passengers began
      to weary him. Also, he had been receiving terse memoranda from the Chief
      Engineer that the coal was getting low in the bunkers and that something
      must be queer in the navigating department. This seemed very unreasonable.
      The fixed gaze of Mr. Pointer, perpetually examining the horizon as though
      he wanted to make sure he would recognize it if they met again, was
      trying. Even Captain Scottie complained one day that the supply of fresh
      meat had given out and that the steward had been bringing him tinned beef.
      Gissing determined upon resolute measures.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had notice served that on account of possible danger from pirates there
      would be a general boat drill on the following day&mdash;not merely for
      the crew, but for everyone. He gave a little talk about it in the saloon
      after dinner, and worked his audience up to quite a pitch of enthusiasm.
      This would be better than any amateur theatricals, he insisted. Everyone
      was to act exactly as though in a sudden calamity. They might make up the
      boat-parties on the basis of congeniality if they wished; five minutes
      would be given for reaching the stations, without panic or disorder. They
      should prepare themselves as though they were actually going to leave a
      sinking ship.
    </p>
    <p>
      The passengers were delighted with the idea of this novel entertainment.
      Every soul on board&mdash;with the exception of Captain Scottie, who had
      locked himself in and refused to be disturbed&mdash;was properly
      advertised of the event.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following day, fortunately, was clear and calm. At noon Gissing blew
      the syren, fired a rocket from the bridge, and swung the engine telegraph
      to STOP. The ship's orchestra, by his orders, struck up a rollicking air.
      Quickly and without confusion, amid cries of Women and children first! the
      passengers filed to their allotted places. The crew and officers were all
      at their stations.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing knocked at Captain Scottie's cabin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are taking to the boats,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Goad!&rdquo; cried the skipper. &ldquo;Wull it be a colleesion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All's clear and the davits are outboard,&rdquo; said Gissing. He had been
      studying the manual of boat handling in one of the nautical volumes in the
      chart-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Auld Hornie!&rdquo; ejaculated the skipper. &ldquo;We'll no can salve the specie!
      Make note of her poseetion, Mr. Gissing!&rdquo; He hastened to gather his
      papers, the log, a chronometer, and a large canister of tobacco.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Deil's intil't,&rdquo; he said as he hastened to his boat. &ldquo;I had yon
      pragmateesm of yours on a lee shore. Two-three hours, I'd have careened
      ye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gissing was ready with his megaphone. From the wing of the bridge he gave
      the orders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lower away!&rdquo; and the boats dropped to the passenger rail.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Avast lowering!&rdquo; Each boat took in her roster of passengers, who were in
      high spirits at this unusual excitement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mind your painters! Lower handsomely!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boats took the water in orderly fashion, and were cast off. Remaining
      members of the crew swarmed down the falls. The bandsmen had a boat to
      themselves, and resumed their tune as soon as they were settled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing, left alone on the ship, waved for silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look sharp, man!&rdquo; cried Captain Scottie. &ldquo;Honour's satisfied! Take your
      place in the boat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The passengers applauded, and there was quite a clatter of camera shutters
      as they snapped the Pomerania looming grandly above them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boats are all provisioned and equipped,&rdquo; shouted Gissing. &ldquo;I've
      broadcasted your position by radio. The barometer's at Fixed Fair. Pull
      off now, and 'ware the screw.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved the telegraph handle to DEAD SLOW, and the Pomerania began to
      slip forward gently. The boats dropped aft amid a loud miscellaneous
      outcry. Mr. Pointer was already examining the horizon. Captain Scottie,
      awakened to the situation, was uttering the language of theology but not
      the purport.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't stand up in the boats,&rdquo; megaphoned Gissing. &ldquo;You're quite all
      right, there's a ship on the way already. I wirelessed last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He slid the telegraph to slow, half, and then full. Once more the ship
      creamed through the lifting purple swells. The little flock of boats was
      soon out of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alone at the wheel, he realized that a great weight was off his mind. The
      responsibility of his position had burdened him more than he knew. Now a
      strange eagerness and joy possessed him. His bubbling wake cut straight
      and milky across the glittering afternoon. In a ruddy sunset glow, the sea
      darkened through all tints of violet, amethyst, indigo. The horizon line
      sharpened so clearly that he could distinguish the tossing profile of
      waves wetting the sky. &ldquo;A red sky at night is the sailor's delight,&rdquo; he
      said to himself. He switched on the port and starboard lights and the
      masthead lanterns, then lashed the wheel while he went below for supper.
      He did not know exactly where he was, for he seemed to have steamed clean
      off the chart; but as he conned the helm that evening, and leaned over the
      lighted binnacle, he had a feeling that he was not far from some destiny.
      With cheerful assurance he lashed the wheel again, and turned in. He woke
      once in the night, and leaped from the hammock with a start. He thought he
      had heard a sound of barking.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      The next morning he sighted land. Coming out on the bridge, the whole face
      of things was changed. The sea-colour had lightened to a tawny green;
      gulls dipped and hovered; away on the horizon lay a soft blue contour.
      &ldquo;Land Ho!&rdquo; he shouted superbly, and wondered what new country he had
      discovered. He ran up a hoist of red and yellow signal flags, and steered
      gaily toward the shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had grown suddenly cold: he had to fetch Captain Scottie's pea-jacket
      to wear at the wheel. On the long spilling crests, that crumbled and
      spread running layers of froth in their hurry shoreward, the Pomerania
      rode home. She knew her landfall and seemed to quicken. Steadily swinging
      on the jade-green surges, she buried her nose almost to the hawse-pipes,
      then lifted until her streaming forefoot gleamed out of a frilled ruffle
      of foam.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing, too, was eager. A tingling buoyancy and impatience took hold of
      him: he fidgeted with sheer eagerness for life. Land, the beloved
      stability of our dear and only earth, drew and charmed him. Behind was the
      senseless, heartbreaking sea. Now he could discern hills rising in a
      gilded opaline light. In the volatile thin air was a quick sense of
      strangeness. A new world was close about him: a world that he could see,
      and feel, and inhale, and yet knew nothing of.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly a great humility possessed him. He had been froward and silly and
      vain. He had shouted arrogantly at Beauty, like a noisy tourist in a
      canyon; and the only answer, after long waiting, had been the paltry
      diminished echo of his own voice. He thought shamefully of his follies.
      What matter how you name God or in what words you praise Him? In this new
      foreign land he would quietly accept things as he found them. The laughter
      of God was too strange to understand.
    </p>
    <p>
      No, there was no answer. He was doubly damned, for he had made truth a
      mere sport of intellectual riddling. The mind, like a spinning flywheel of
      fatigued steel, was gradually racked to bursting by the conflict of
      stresses. And yet: every equilibrium was an opposure of forces. Rotation,
      if swift enough, creates amazing stability: he had seen how the gyroscope
      can balance at apparently impossible angles. Perhaps it was so of the
      mind. If it twirls at high speed it can lean right out over the abyss
      without collapse. But the stationary mind&mdash;he thought of Bishop
      Borzoi&mdash;must keep away from the edge. Try to force it to the edge, it
      raves in panic. Every mind, very likely, knows its own frailties, and does
      well to safeguard them. At any rate, that was the most generous
      interpretation. Most minds, undoubtedly, were uneasy in high places. They
      doubted their ability to refrain from jumping off. How many bones of fine
      intellects lay whitening at the foot of the theological cliff&mdash;It
      seemed to be a lonely coast, and wintry. Patches of snow lay upon the
      hills, the woods were bare and brown. A bottle-necked harbour opened out
      before him. He reduced the engines to Dead Slow and glided gaily through
      the strait. He had been anxious lest his navigation might not be equal to
      the occasion: he did not want to disgrace himself at this final test. But
      all seemed to arrange itself with enchanted ease. A steep ledge of ground
      offered a natural pier, with tree-stumps for bollards. He let her come
      gently beyond the spot; reversed the propellers just at the right time,
      and backed neatly alongside. He moved the telegraph handle to FINISHED
      WITH ENGINES; ran out the gangplank smartly, and stepped ashore. He moored
      the vessel fore and aft, and hung out fenders to prevent chafing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first thing to do, he said to himself, is to get the lie of the land,
      and find out whether it is inhabited.
    </p>
    <p>
      A hillside rising above the water promised a clear view. The stubble grass
      was dry and frosty, after the warm days at sea the chill was nipping; but
      what an elixir of air! If this is a desert island, he thought, it will be
      a glorious discovery. His heart was jocund with anticipation. A curious
      foreign look in the landscape, he thought; quite unlike anything&mdash;Suddenly,
      where the hill arched against pearly sky, he saw narrow thread of smoke
      rising. He halted in alarm. Who might this be, friend or foe? But eager
      agitation pushed him on. Burning to know, he hurried up to the brow of the
      hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      The smoke mounted from a small bonfire of sticks in a sheltered thicket,
      where a miraculous being&mdash;who was, as a matter of fact, a rather
      ragged and dingy vagabond&mdash;was cooking a tin of stew over the blaze.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gissing stood, quivering with emotion. Joy such as he had never known
      darted through all the cords of his body. He ran, shouting, in mirth and
      terror. In fear, in a passion of love and knowledge and understanding, he
      abased himself and yearned before this marvel. Impossible to have
      conceived, yet, once seen, utterly satisfying and the fulfilment of all
      needs. He laughed and leaped and worshipped. When the first transport was
      over, he laid his head against this being's knee, he nestled there and was
      content. This was the inscrutable perfect answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cripes!&rdquo; said the puzzled tramp, as he caressed the nuzzling head. &ldquo;The
      purp's loco. Maybe he's been lost. You might think he'd never seen a man
      before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was right.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Gissing sat quietly, his throat resting upon the soiled knee of a very
      old and spicy trouser.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have found God,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently he thought of the ship. It would not do to leave her so
      insecurely moored. Reluctantly, with many a backward glance and a heart
      full of glory, he left the Presence. He ran to the edge of the hill to
      look down upon the harbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The outlook was puzzlingly altered. He gazed in astonishment. What were
      those poplars, rising naked into the bright air?&mdash;there was something
      familiar about them. And that little house beyond... he stared bewildered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great shining breadth of the ocean had shrunk to the roundness of a
      tiny pond. And the Pomerania? He leaned over, shaken with questions.
      There, beside the bank, was a little plank of wood, a child's plaything,
      roughly fashioned shipshape: two chips for funnels; red and yellow frosted
      leaves for flags; a withered dogwood blossom for propeller. He leaned
      closer, with whirling mind. In the clear cool surface of the pond he could
      see the sky mirrored, deeper than any ocean, pellucid, infinite, blue.
    </p>
    <p>
      He ran up the path to the house. The scuffled ragged garden lay naked and
      hard. At the windows, he saw with surprise, were holly wreaths tied with
      broad red ribbon. On the porch, some battered toys. He opened the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fluttering rosy light filled the room. By the fireplace the puppies&mdash;how
      big they were!&mdash;were sitting with Mrs. Spaniel. Joyous uproar greeted
      him: they flung themselves upon him. Shouts of &ldquo;Daddy! Daddy!&rdquo; filled the
      house, while the young Spaniels stood by more bashfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      Good Mrs. Spaniel was gratefully moved. Her moist eyes shone brightly in
      the firelight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you'd be home for Christmas, Mr. Gissing,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I've been
      telling them so all afternoon. Now, children, be still a moment and let me
      speak. I've been telling you your Daddy would be home in time for a
      Christmas Eve story. I've got to go and fix that plum pudding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In her excitement a clear bubble dripped from the tip of her tongue. She
      caught it in her apron, and hurried to the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      The children insisted on leading him all through the house to show how
      nicely they had taken care of things. And in every room Gissing saw the
      marks of riot and wreckage. There were tooth-scars on all furniture-legs;
      the fringes of rugs were chewed off; there were prints of mud, ink,
      paints, and whatnot, on curtains and wallpapers and coverlets. Poor Mrs.
      Spaniel kept running anxiously from the kitchen to renew apologies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I DID try to keep 'em in order,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but they seem to bash things
      when you're not looking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Gissing was too happy to stew about such trifles. When the inspection
      was over, they all sat down by the chimney and he piled on more logs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, chilluns,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;what do you want Santa Claus to bring you for
      Christmas?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An aunbile!&rdquo; exclaimed Groups
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An elphunt!&rdquo; exclaimed Bunks
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little train with hammers!&rdquo; exclaimed Yelpers
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little train with hammers?&rdquo; asked Gissing. &ldquo;What does he mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Groups and Bunks, with condescending pity, &ldquo;he means a
      typewriter. He calls it a little train because it moves on a track when
      you hit it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A painful apprehension seized him, and he went hastily to his study. He
      had not noticed the typewriter, which Mrs. Spaniel had&mdash;too late&mdash;put
      out of reach. Half the keys were sticking upright, jammed together and
      tangled in a whirl of ribbon; the carriage was strangely dislocated. And
      yet even this mischance, which would once have horrified him, left him
      unperturbed. It's my own fault, he thought: I shouldn't have left it where
      they could play with it. Perhaps God thinks the same when His creatures
      make a mess of the dangerous laws of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Christmas story!&rdquo; the children were clamouring.
    </p>
    <p>
      Can it really be Christmas Eve? Gissing thought. Christmas seems to have
      come very suddenly this year, I haven't really adjusted my mind to it yet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Now sit still and keep quiet. Bunks, give Yelpers a
      little more room. If there's any bickering Santa Claus might hear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat in the big chair by the fire, and the three looked upward
      expectantly from the hearthrug.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once upon a time there were three little puppies, who lived in a house in
      the country in the Canine Estates. And their names were Groups, Bunks, and
      Yelpers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The three tails thumped in turn as the names were mentioned, but the
      children were too excitedly absorbed to interrupt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And one year, just before Christmas, they heard a dreadful rumour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's a rumour?&rdquo; cried Yelpers, alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was rather difficult to explain, so Gissing did not attempt it. He
      began again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They heard that Santa Claus might not be able to come because he was so
      behind with his housework. You see, Santa Claus is a great big
      Newfoundland dog with a white beard, and he lives in a frosty kennel at
      the North Pole, all shining with icicles round the roof and windows. But
      it's so far away from everywhere that poor Santa couldn't get a servant.
      All the maids who went there refused to stay because it was so cold and
      lonely, and so far from the movies. Santa Claus was busy in his workshop,
      making toys; he was busy taking care of the reindeer in their
      snow-stables; and he didn't have time to wash his dishes. So all summer he
      just let them pile up and pile up in the kitchen. And when Christmas came
      near, there was his lovely house in a dreadful state of untidiness. He
      couldn't go away and leave it like that. And so, if he didn't get his
      dishes washed and the house cleaned up for Christmas, all the puppies all
      over the world would have to go without toys. When Groups and Bunks and
      Yelpers heard this, they were very much worried.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did they hear it?&rdquo; asked Bunks, who was the analytical member of the
      trio.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A very sensible question,&rdquo; said Gissing, approvingly. &ldquo;They heard it from
      the chipmunk who lives in the wood behind the house. The chipmunk heard it
      underground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In his chipmonastery?&rdquo; cried Groups. It was a family joke to call the
      chipmunk's burrow by that name, and though the puppies did not understand
      the pun they relished the long word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Gissing. &ldquo;The reindeer in Santa Claus's stable were so
      unhappy about the dishes not being washed, and the chance of missing their
      Christmas frolic, that they broadcasted a radio message. Their horns are
      very fine for sending radio, and the chipmunk, sitting at his little
      wireless outfit, with the receivers over his ears, heard it. And Chippy
      told Groups and Bunks and Yelpers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So these puppies decided to help Santa Claus. They didn't know exactly
      where to find him, but the chipmunk told them the direction, and off they
      went. They travelled and travelled, and when they came to the ocean they
      begged a ride from the seagulls, and each one sat on a seagull's back just
      as though he was on a little airplane. They flew and flew, and at last
      they came to Santa Claus's house. Through the stable-walls, which were
      made of clear ice, they could see the reindeer stamping in their stalls.
      In the big workshop, where Santa Claus was busy making toys, they could
      hear a lively sound of hammering. The big red sleigh was standing outside
      the stables, all ready to be hitched up to the reindeer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They slipped into Santa Claus's house quickly and quietly, so no one
      would see or hear them. The house was in a terrible state, but they set to
      work to clean up. Groups found the vacuum cleaner and sucked up all the
      crumbs from the dining-room rug. Bunks ran upstairs and made Santa Claus's
      bed for him and swept the floors and put clean towels in the bathroom. And
      Yelpers hurried into the kitchen and washed the dishes, and scrubbed the
      pots, and polished the egg-stains off the silver spoons, and emptied the
      ice-box pan. All working hard, they got through very soon, and made Santa
      Claus's house as clean as any house could be. They fixed the window-shades
      so that they would all hang level, not just anyhow, as poor Santa had
      them. Then, when everything was spick and span, they ran outdoors again
      and beckoned the seagulls. They climbed on the gulls' backs, and away they
      flew homeward.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was Santa Claus pleased?&rdquo; asked Bunks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed he was, when he came back from his workshop, very tired after
      making toys all day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kind of toys did he make?&rdquo; exclaimed Yelpers anxiously. &ldquo;Did he make
      a typewriter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He made every kind of toy. And when he saw how his house had been cleaned
      up, he thought the fairies must have done it. He lit his pipe, and filled
      a thermos bottle with hot cocoa to keep him warm on his long journey. Then
      he put on his red coat, and his long boots, and his fur cap, and went out
      to harness the reindeer. That very night he drove off with his sleigh
      packed full of toys for all the puppies in the world. In fact, he was so
      pleased that he loaded his big bag with more toys than he had ever carried
      before. And that was how a queer thing happened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They waited in eager suspense.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, Santa Claus always drives into the Canine Estates by the little
      back road through the woods, where the chipmunk lives. You know the
      gateway, at the bend in the lane: well, it's rather narrow, and Santa
      Claus's sleigh is very wide. And this time, because his bag had so many
      toys in it, the bag bulged over the edge of the sleigh, and one corner of
      the bag caught on the gatepost as he drove by. Three toys fell out, and
      what do you suppose they were?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An aunbile!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An elphunt!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A typewriter!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that's quite right. And it happened that the chipmunk was out that
      night, digging up some nuts for his Christmas dinner, a little sad because
      he had no presents to give his children; and he found the three toys. He
      took them home to the little chipmunks, and they were tremendously
      pleased. That was only fair, because if it hadn't been for the chipmunk
      and his radio set, no one would have had any toys that Christmas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did Santa Claus have any more typewriters in his bag?&rdquo; asked Yelpers
      gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, he had plenty more of everything. And when he got to the house
      where Groups and Bunks and Yelpers lived, he slid down the chimney and
      took a look round. He didn't see any crumbs on the floor, or any toys
      lying about not put away, so he filled the stockings with all kinds of
      lovely things, and an aunbile and an elphunt and a typewriter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did the puppies say?&rdquo; they inquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were sound asleep upstairs, and didn't know anything about it until
      Christmas morning. Come on now, it's time for bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can undress ourselves now,&rdquo; said Groups.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you tuck me in?&rdquo; said Bunks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're sure he had another typewriter in his bag?&rdquo; said Yelpers.
    </p>
    <p>
      They scrambled upstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Later, when the house was quiet, Gissing went out to the kitchen to see
      Mrs. Spaniel. She was diligently rolling pastry, and her nose was white
      with flour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, sir, I'm glad you got home in time for Christmas,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The
      children were counting on it. Did you have a successful trip, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every trip is successful when you get home again,&rdquo; said Gissing. &ldquo;I
      suppose the shops will be open late to-night, won't they? I'm going to run
      down to the village to get some toys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Before leaving the house, he went down to the cellar to see if the furnace
      was all right. He was amazed to see how naturally and cheerfully he had
      slipped back into the old sense of responsibility. Where was the illusory
      freedom he had dreamed of? Even the epiphany on the hilltop now seemed a
      distant miracle. That fearful happiness might never come again. And yet
      here, among the familiar difficult minutiae of home, what a lightness he
      felt. A great phrase from the prayer-book came to his mind&mdash;&ldquo;Whose
      service is perfect freedom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ah, he said to himself, it is all very well to wear a crown of thorns, and
      indeed every sensitive creature carries one in secret. But there are times
      when it ought to be worn cocked over one ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      He opened the furnace door. A bright glow filled the fire-box: he could
      hear a stir and singing in the boiler, and the rustle of warm pipes that
      chuckled quietly through winter nights of storm. Over the coals hovered a
      magic evasive flicker, the very soul of fire. It was a Pentecostal flame,
      perfect and heavenly in tint, the essence of pure colour, a clear immortal
      blue.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE END <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </p>
  <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1402 ***</div>
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