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diff --git a/1669-h/1669-h.htm b/1669-h/1669-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d6ddb52 --- /dev/null +++ b/1669-h/1669-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3571 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Human Drift</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Human Drift, by Jack London</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Human Drift, by Jack London + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Human Drift + + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: April 27, 2005 [eBook #1669] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUMAN DRIFT*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1919 Mills and Boon edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>THE HUMAN DRIFT<br /> +by Jack London</h1> +<p>Contents:</p> +<p>The Human Drift<br /> +Small-Boat Sailing<br /> +Four Horses and a Sailor<br /> +Nothing that Ever Came to Anything<br /> +That Dead Men Rise up Never<br /> +A Classic of the Sea<br /> + A Wicked Woman (Curtain Raiser)<br /> + The Birth Mark (Sketch)</p> +<h2>THE HUMAN DRIFT</h2> +<blockquote><p>“The Revelations of Devout and Learn’d<br /> +Who rose before us, and as Prophets Burn’d,<br /> + Are all but stories, which, awoke from Sleep,<br /> +They told their comrades, and to Sleep return’d.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The history of civilisation is a history of wandering, sword in hand, +in search of food. In the misty younger world we catch glimpses +of phantom races, rising, slaying, finding food, building rude civilisations, +decaying, falling under the swords of stronger hands, and passing utterly +away. Man, like any other animal, has roved over the earth seeking +what he might devour; and not romance and adventure, but the hunger-need, +has urged him on his vast adventures. Whether a bankrupt gentleman +sailing to colonise Virginia or a lean Cantonese contracting to labour +on the sugar plantations of Hawaii, in each case, gentleman and coolie, +it is a desperate attempt to get something to eat, to get more to eat +than he can get at home.</p> +<p>It has always been so, from the time of the first pre-human anthropoid +crossing a mountain-divide in quest of better berry-bushes beyond, down +to the latest Slovak, arriving on our shores to-day, to go to work in +the coal-mines of Pennsylvania. These migratory movements of peoples +have been called drifts, and the word is apposite. Unplanned, +blind, automatic, spurred on by the pain of hunger, man has literally +drifted his way around the planet. There have been drifts in the +past, innumerable and forgotten, and so remote that no records have +been left, or composed of such low-typed humans or pre-humans that they +made no scratchings on stone or bone and left no monuments to show that +they had been.</p> +<p>These early drifts we conjecture and know must have occurred, just +as we know that the first upright-walking brutes were descended from +some kin of the quadrumana through having developed “a pair of +great toes out of two opposable thumbs.” Dominated by fear, +and by their very fear accelerating their development, these early ancestors +of ours, suffering hunger-pangs very like the ones we experience to-day, +drifted on, hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, wandering +through thousand-year-long odysseys of screaming primordial savagery, +until they left their skeletons in glacial gravels, some of them, and +their bone-scratchings in cave-men’s lairs.</p> +<p>There have been drifts from east to west and west to east, from north +to south and back again, drifts that have criss-crossed one another, +and drifts colliding and recoiling and caroming off in new directions. +From Central Europe the Aryans have drifted into Asia, and from Central +Asia the Turanians have drifted across Europe. Asia has thrown +forth great waves of hungry humans from the prehistoric “round-barrow” +“broad-heads” who overran Europe and penetrated to Scandinavia +and England, down through the hordes of Attila and Tamerlane, to the +present immigration of Chinese and Japanese that threatens America. +The Phoenicians and the Greeks, with unremembered drifts behind them, +colonised the Mediterranean. Rome was engulfed in the torrent +of Germanic tribes drifting down from the north before a flood of drifting +Asiatics. The Angles, Saxons, and Jutes, after having drifted +whence no man knows, poured into Britain, and the English have carried +this drift on around the world. Retreating before stronger breeds, +hungry and voracious, the Eskimo has drifted to the inhospitable polar +regions, the Pigmy to the fever-rotten jungles of Africa. And +in this day the drift of the races continues, whether it be of Chinese +into the Philippines and the Malay Peninsula, of Europeans to the United +States or of Americans to the wheat-lands of Manitoba and the Northwest.</p> +<p>Perhaps most amazing has been the South Sea Drift. Blind, fortuitous, +precarious as no other drift has been, nevertheless the islands in that +waste of ocean have received drift after drift of the races. Down +from the mainland of Asia poured an Aryan drift that built civilisations +in Ceylon, Java, and Sumatra. Only the monuments of these Aryans +remain. They themselves have perished utterly, though not until +after leaving evidences of their drift clear across the great South +Pacific to far Easter Island. And on that drift they encountered +races who had accomplished the drift before them, and they, the Aryans, +passed, in turn, before the drift of other and subsequent races whom +we to-day call the Polynesian and the Melanesian.</p> +<p>Man early discovered death. As soon as his evolution permitted, +he made himself better devices for killing than the old natural ones +of fang and claw. He devoted himself to the invention of killing +devices before he discovered fire or manufactured for himself religion. +And to this day, his finest creative energy and technical skill are +devoted to the same old task of making better and ever better killing +weapons. All his days, down all the past, have been spent in killing. +And from the fear-stricken, jungle-lurking, cave-haunting creature of +long ago, he won to empery over the whole animal world because he developed +into the most terrible and awful killer of all the animals. He +found himself crowded. He killed to make room, and as he made +room ever he increased and found himself crowded, and ever he went on +killing to make more room. Like a settler clearing land of its +weeds and forest bushes in order to plant corn, so man was compelled +to clear all manner of life away in order to plant himself. And, +sword in hand, he has literally hewn his way through the vast masses +of life that occupied the earth space he coveted for himself. +And ever he has carried the battle wider and wider, until to-day not +only is he a far more capable killer of men and animals than ever before, +but he has pressed the battle home to the infinite and invisible hosts +of menacing lives in the world of micro-organisms.</p> +<p>It is true, that they that rose by the sword perished by the sword. +And yet, not only did they not all perish, but more rose by the sword +than perished by it, else man would not to-day be over-running the world +in such huge swarms. Also, it must not be forgotten that they +who did not rise by the sword did not rise at all. They were not. +In view of this, there is something wrong with Doctor Jordan’s +war-theory, which is to the effect that the best being sent out to war, +only the second best, the men who are left, remain to breed a second-best +race, and that, therefore, the human race deteriorates under war. +If this be so, if we have sent forth the best we bred and gone on breeding +from the men who were left, and since we have done this for ten thousand +millenniums and are what we splendidly are to-day, then what unthinkably +splendid and god-like beings must have been our forebears those ten +thousand millenniums ago! Unfortunately for Doctor Jordan’s +theory, those ancient forebears cannot live up to this fine reputation. +We know them for what they were, and before the monkey cage of any menagerie +we catch truer glimpses and hints and resemblances of what our ancestors +really were long and long ago. And by killing, incessant killing, +by making a shambles of the planet, those ape-like creatures have developed +even into you and me. As Henley has said in “The Song of +the Sword”:</p> +<blockquote><p>“<i>The Sword Singing</i>—</p> +<p>Driving the darkness,<br /> +Even as the banners<br /> +And spear of the Morning;<br /> +Sifting the nations,<br /> +The Slag from the metal,<br /> +The waste and the weak<br /> +From the fit and the strong;<br /> +Fighting the brute,<br /> +The abysmal Fecundity;<br /> +Checking the gross<br /> +Multitudinous blunders,<br /> +The groping, the purblind<br /> +Excesses in service<br /> +Of the Womb universal,<br /> +The absolute drudge.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As time passed and man increased, he drifted ever farther afield +in search of room. He encountered other drifts of men, and the +killing of men became prodigious. The weak and the decadent fell +under the sword. Nations that faltered, that waxed prosperous +in fat valleys and rich river deltas, were swept away by the drifts +of stronger men who were nourished on the hardships of deserts and mountains +and who were more capable with the sword. Unknown and unnumbered +billions of men have been so destroyed in prehistoric times. Draper +says that in the twenty years of the Gothic war, Italy lost 15,000,000 +of her population; “and that the wars, famines, and pestilences +of the reign of Justinian diminished the human species by the almost +incredible number of 100,000,000.” Germany, in the Thirty +Years’ War, lost 6,000,000 inhabitants. The record of our +own American Civil War need scarcely be recalled.</p> +<p>And man has been destroyed in other ways than by the sword. +Flood, famine, pestilence and murder are potent factors in reducing +population—in making room. As Mr. Charles Woodruff, in his +“Expansion of Races,” has instanced: In 1886, when the dikes +of the Yellow River burst, 7,000,000 people were drowned. The +failure of crops in Ireland, in 1848, caused 1,000,000 deaths. +The famines in India of 1896-7 and 1899-1900 lessened the population +by 21,000,000. The T’ai’ping rebellion and the Mohammedan +rebellion, combined with the famine of 1877-78, destroyed scores of +millions of Chinese. Europe has been swept repeatedly by great +plagues. In India, for the period of 1903 to 1907, the plague +deaths averaged between one and two millions a year. Mr. Woodruff +is responsible for the assertion that 10,000,000 persons now living +in the United States are doomed to die of tuberculosis. And in +this same country ten thousand persons a year are directly murdered. +In China, between three and six millions of infants are annually destroyed, +while the total infanticide record of the whole world is appalling. +In Africa, now, human beings are dying by millions of the sleeping sickness.</p> +<p>More destructive of life than war, is industry. In all civilised +countries great masses of people are crowded into slums and labour-ghettos, +where disease festers, vice corrodes, and famine is chronic, and where +they die more swiftly and in greater numbers than do the soldiers in +our modern wars. The very infant mortality of a slum parish in +the East End of London is three times that of a middle-class parish +in the West End. In the United States, in the last fourteen years, +a total of coal-miners, greater than our entire standing army, has been +killed and injured. The United States Bureau of Labour states +that during the year 1908, there were between 30,000 and 35,000 deaths +of workers by accidents, while 200,000 more were injured. In fact, +the safest place for a working-man is in the army. And even if +that army be at the front, fighting in Cuba or South Africa, the soldier +in the ranks has a better chance for life than the working-man at home.</p> +<p>And yet, despite this terrible roll of death, despite the enormous +killing of the past and the enormous killing of the present, there are +to-day alive on the planet a billion and three quarters of human beings. +Our immediate conclusion is that man is exceedingly fecund and very +tough. Never before have there been so many people in the world. +In the past centuries the world’s population has been smaller; +in the future centuries it is destined to be larger. And this +brings us to that old bugbear that has been so frequently laughed away +and that still persists in raising its grisly head—namely, the +doctrine of Malthus. While man’s increasing efficiency of +food-production, combined with colonisation of whole virgin continents, +has for generations given the apparent lie to Malthus’ mathematical +statement of the Law of Population, nevertheless the essential significance +of his doctrine remains and cannot be challenged. Population <i>does</i> +press against subsistence. And no matter how rapidly subsistence +increases, population is certain to catch up with it.</p> +<p>When man was in the hunting stage of development, wide areas were +necessary for the maintenance of scant populations. With the shepherd +stages, the means of subsistence being increased, a larger population +was supported on the same territory. The agricultural stage gave +support to a still larger population; and, to-day, with the increased +food-getting efficiency of a machine civilisation, an even larger population +is made possible. Nor is this theoretical. The population +is here, a billion and three quarters of men, women, and children, and +this vast population is increasing on itself by leaps and bounds.</p> +<p>A heavy European drift to the New World has gone on and is going +on; yet Europe, whose population a century ago was 170,000,000, has +to-day 500,000,000. At this rate of increase, provided that subsistence +is not overtaken, a century from now the population of Europe will be +1,500,000,000. And be it noted of the present rate of increase +in the United States that only one-third is due to immigration, while +two-thirds is due to excess of births over deaths. And at this +present rate of increase, the population of the United States will be +500,000,000 in less than a century from now.</p> +<p>Man, the hungry one, the killer, has always suffered for lack of +room. The world has been chronically overcrowded. Belgium +with her 572 persons to the square mile is no more crowded than was +Denmark when it supported only 500 palæolithic people. According +to Mr. Woodruff, cultivated land will produce 1600 times as much food +as hunting land. From the time of the Norman Conquest, for centuries +Europe could support no more than 25 to the square mile. To-day +Europe supports 81 to the square mile. The explanation of this +is that for the several centuries after the Norman Conquest her population +was saturated. Then, with the development of trading and capitalism, +of exploration and exploitation of new lands, and with the invention +of labour-saving machinery and the discovery and application of scientific +principles, was brought about a tremendous increase in Europe’s +food-getting efficiency. And immediately her population sprang +up.</p> +<p>According to the census of Ireland, of 1659, that country had a population +of 500,000. One hundred and fifty years later, her population +was 8,000,000. For many centuries the population of Japan was +stationary. There seemed no way of increasing her food-getting +efficiency. Then, sixty years ago, came Commodore Perry, knocking +down her doors and letting in the knowledge and machinery of the superior +food-getting efficiency of the Western world. Immediately upon +this rise in subsistence began the rise of population; and it is only +the other day that Japan, finding her population once again pressing +against subsistence, embarked, sword in hand, on a westward drift in +search of more room. And, sword in hand, killing and being killed, +she has carved out for herself Formosa and Korea, and driven the vanguard +of her drift far into the rich interior of Manchuria.</p> +<p>For an immense period of time China’s population has remained +at 400,000,000—the saturation point. The only reason that +the Yellow River periodically drowns millions of Chinese is that there +is no other land for those millions to farm. And after every such +catastrophe the wave of human life rolls up and now millions flood out +upon that precarious territory. They are driven to it, because +they are pressed remorselessly against subsistence. It is inevitable +that China, sooner or later, like Japan, will learn and put into application +our own superior food-getting efficiency. And when that time comes, +it is likewise inevitable that her population will increase by unguessed +millions until it again reaches the saturation point. And then, +inoculated with Western ideas, may she not, like Japan, take sword in +hand and start forth colossally on a drift of her own for more room? +This is another reputed bogie—the Yellow Peril; yet the men of +China are only men, like any other race of men, and all men, down all +history, have drifted hungrily, here, there and everywhere over the +planet, seeking for something to eat. What other men do, may not +the Chinese do?</p> +<p>But a change has long been coming in the affairs of man. The +more recent drifts of the stronger races, carving their way through +the lesser breeds to more earth-space, has led to peace, ever to wider +and more lasting peace. The lesser breeds, under penalty of being +killed, have been compelled to lay down their weapons and cease killing +among themselves. The scalp-talking Indian and the head-hunting +Melanesian have been either destroyed or converted to a belief in the +superior efficacy of civil suits and criminal prosecutions. The +planet is being subdued. The wild and the hurtful are either tamed +or eliminated. From the beasts of prey and the cannibal humans +down to the death-dealing microbes, no quarter is given; and daily, +wider and wider areas of hostile territory, whether of a warring desert-tribe +in Africa or a pestilential fever-hole like Panama, are made peaceable +and habitable for mankind. As for the great mass of stay-at-home +folk, what percentage of the present generation in the United States, +England, or Germany, has seen war or knows anything of war at first +hand? There was never so much peace in the world as there is to-day.</p> +<p>War itself, the old red anarch, is passing. It is safer to +be a soldier than a working-man. The chance for life is greater +in an active campaign than in a factory or a coal-mine. In the +matter of killing, war is growing impotent, and this in face of the +fact that the machinery of war was never so expensive in the past nor +so dreadful. War-equipment to-day, in time of peace, is more expensive +than of old in time of war. A standing army costs more to maintain +than it used to cost to conquer an empire. It is more expensive +to be ready to kill, than it used to be to do the killing. The +price of a Dreadnought would furnish the whole army of Xerxes with killing +weapons. And, in spite of its magnificent equipment, war no longer +kills as it used to when its methods were simpler. A bombardment +by a modern fleet has been known to result in the killing of one mule. +The casualties of a twentieth century war between two world-powers are +such as to make a worker in an iron-foundry turn green with envy. +War has become a joke. Men have made for themselves monsters of +battle which they cannot face in battle. Subsistence is generous +these days, life is not cheap, and it is not in the nature of flesh +and blood to indulge in the carnage made possible by present-day machinery. +This is not theoretical, as will be shown by a comparison of deaths +in battle and men involved, in the South African War and the Spanish-American +War on the one hand, and the Civil War or the Napoleonic Wars on the +other.</p> +<p>Not only has war, by its own evolution, rendered itself futile, but +man himself, with greater wisdom and higher ethics, is opposed to war. +He has learned too much. War is repugnant to his common sense. +He conceives it to be wrong, to be absurd, and to be very expensive. +For the damage wrought and the results accomplished, it is not worth +the price. Just as in the disputes of individuals the arbitration +of a civil court instead of a blood feud is more practical, so, man +decides, is arbitration more practical in the disputes of nations.</p> +<p>War is passing, disease is being conquered, and man’s food-getting +efficiency is increasing. It is because of these factors that +there are a billion and three quarters of people alive to-day instead +of a billion, or three-quarters of a billion. And it is because +of these factors that the world’s population will very soon be +two billions and climbing rapidly toward three billions. The lifetime +of the generation is increasing steadily. Men live longer these +days. Life is not so precarious. The newborn infant has +a greater chance for survival than at any time in the past. Surgery +and sanitation reduce the fatalities that accompany the mischances of +life and the ravages of disease. Men and women, with deficiencies +and weaknesses that in the past would have effected their rapid extinction, +live to-day and father and mother a numerous progeny. And high +as the food-getting efficiency may soar, population is bound to soar +after it. “The abysmal fecundity” of life has not +altered. Given the food, and life will increase. A small +percentage of the billion and three-quarters that live to-day may hush +the clamour of life to be born, but it is only a small percentage. +In this particular, the life in the man-animal is very like the life +in the other animals.</p> +<p>And still another change is coming in human affairs. Though +politicians gnash their teeth and cry anathema, and man, whose superficial +book-learning is vitiated by crystallised prejudice, assures us that +civilisation will go to smash, the trend of society, to-day, the world +over, is toward socialism. The old individualism is passing. +The state interferes more and more in affairs that hitherto have been +considered sacredly private. And socialism, when the last word +is said, is merely a new economic and political system whereby more +men can get food to eat. In short, socialism is an improved food-getting +efficiency.</p> +<p>Furthermore, not only will socialism get food more easily and in +greater quantity, but it will achieve a more equitable distribution +of that food. Socialism promises, for a time, to give all men, +women, and children all they want to eat, and to enable them to eat +all they want as often as they want. Subsistence will be pushed +back, temporarily, an exceedingly long way. In consequence, the +flood of life will rise like a tidal wave. There will be more +marriages and more children born. The enforced sterility that +obtains to-day for many millions, will no longer obtain. Nor will +the fecund millions in the slums and labour-ghettos, who to-day die +of all the ills due to chronic underfeeding and overcrowding, and who +die with their fecundity largely unrealised, die in that future day +when the increased food-getting efficiency of socialism will give them +all they want to eat.</p> +<p>It is undeniable that population will increase prodigiously-just +as it has increased prodigiously during the last few centuries, following +upon the increase in food-getting efficiency. The magnitude of +population in that future day is well nigh unthinkable. But there +is only so much land and water on the surface of the earth. Man, +despite his marvellous accomplishments, will never be able to increase +the diameter of the planet. The old days of virgin continents +will be gone. The habitable planet, from ice-cap to ice-cap, will +be inhabited. And in the matter of food-getting, as in everything +else, man is only finite. Undreamed-of efficiencies in food-getting +may be achieved, but, soon or late, man will find himself face to face +with Malthus’ grim law. Not only will population catch up +with subsistence, but it will press against subsistence, and the pressure +will be pitiless and savage. Somewhere in the future is a date +when man will face, consciously, the bitter fact that there is not food +enough for all of him to eat.</p> +<p>When this day comes, what then? Will there be a recrudescence +of old obsolete war? In a saturated population life is always +cheap, as it is cheap in China, in India, to-day. Will new human +drifts take place, questing for room, carving earth-space out of crowded +life. Will the Sword again sing:</p> +<blockquote><p>“Follow, O follow, then,<br /> +Heroes, my harvesters!<br /> +Where the tall grain is ripe<br /> +Thrust in your sickles!<br /> +Stripped and adust<br /> +In a stubble of empire<br /> +Scything and binding<br /> +The full sheaves of sovereignty.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Even if, as of old, man should wander hungrily, sword in hand, slaying +and being slain, the relief would be only temporary. Even if one +race alone should hew down the last survivor of all the other races, +that one race, drifting the world around, would saturate the planet +with its own life and again press against subsistence. And in +that day, the death rate and the birth rate will have to balance. +Men will have to die, or be prevented from being born. Undoubtedly +a higher quality of life will obtain, and also a slowly decreasing fecundity. +But this decrease will be so slow that the pressure against subsistence +will remain. The control of progeny will be one of the most important +problems of man and one of the most important functions of the state. +Men will simply be not permitted to be born.</p> +<p>Disease, from time to time, will ease the pressure. Diseases +are parasites, and it must not be forgotten that just as there are drifts +in the world of man, so are there drifts in the world of micro-organisms—hunger-quests +for food. Little is known of the micro-organic world, but that +little is appalling; and no census of it will ever be taken, for there +is the true, literal “abysmal fecundity.” Multitudinous +as man is, all his totality of individuals is as nothing in comparison +with the inconceivable vastness of numbers of the micro-organisms. +In your body, or in mine, right now, are swarming more individual entities +than there are human beings in the world to-day. It is to us an +invisible world. We only guess its nearest confines. With +our powerful microscopes and ultramicroscopes, enlarging diameters twenty +thousand times, we catch but the slightest glimpses of that profundity +of infinitesimal life.</p> +<p>Little is known of that world, save in a general way. We know +that out of it arise diseases, new to us, that afflict and destroy man. +We do not know whether these diseases are merely the drifts, in a fresh +direction, of already-existing breeds of micro-organisms, or whether +they are new, absolutely new, breeds themselves just spontaneously generated. +The latter hypothesis is tenable, for we theorise that if spontaneous +generation still occurs on the earth, it is far more likely to occur +in the form of simple organisms than of complicated organisms.</p> +<p>Another thing we know, and that is that it is in crowded populations +that new diseases arise. They have done so in the past. +They do so to-day. And no matter how wise are our physicians and +bacteriologists, no matter how successfully they cope with these invaders, +new invaders continue to arise—new drifts of hungry life seeking +to devour us. And so we are justified in believing that in the +saturated populations of the future, when life is suffocating in the +pressure against subsistence, that new, and ever new, hosts of destroying +micro-organisms will continue to arise and fling themselves upon earth-crowded +man to give him room. There may even be plagues of unprecedented +ferocity that will depopulate great areas before the wit of man can +overcome them. And this we know: that no matter how often these +invisible hosts may be overcome by man’s becoming immune to them +through a cruel and terrible selection, new hosts will ever arise of +these micro-organisms that were in the world before he came and that +will be here after he is gone.</p> +<p>After he is gone? Will he then some day be gone, and this planet +know him no more? Is it thither that the human drift in all its +totality is trending? God Himself is silent on this point, though +some of His prophets have given us vivid representations of that last +day when the earth shall pass into nothingness. Nor does science, +despite its radium speculations and its attempted analyses of the ultimate +nature of matter, give us any other word than that man will pass. +So far as man’s knowledge goes, law is universal. Elements +react under certain unchangeable conditions. One of these conditions +is temperature. Whether it be in the test tube of the laboratory +or the workshop of nature, all organic chemical reactions take place +only within a restricted range of heat. Man, the latest of the +ephemera, is pitifully a creature of temperature, strutting his brief +day on the thermometer. Behind him is a past wherein it was too +warm for him to exist. Ahead of him is a future wherein it will +be too cold for him to exist. He cannot adjust himself to that +future, because he cannot alter universal law, because he cannot alter +his own construction nor the molecules that compose him.</p> +<p>It would be well to ponder these lines of Herbert Spencer’s +which follow, and which embody, possibly, the wildest vision the scientific +mind has ever achieved:</p> +<blockquote><p>“Motion as well as Matter being fixed in quantity, +it would seem that the change in the distribution of Matter which Motion +effects, coming to a limit in whichever direction it is carried, the +indestructible Motion thereupon necessitates a reverse distribution. +Apparently, the universally-co-existent forces of attraction and repulsion, +which, as we have seen, necessitate rhythm in all minor changes throughout +the Universe, also necessitate rhythm in the totality of its changes—produce +now an immeasurable period during which the attractive forces predominating, +cause universal concentration, and then an immeasurable period during +which the repulsive forces predominating, cause universal diffusion—alternate +eras of Evolution and Dissolution. <i>And thus there is suggested +the conception of a past during which there have been successive Evolutions +analogous to that which is now going on; a future during which successive +other Evolutions may go on—ever the same in principle but never +the same in concrete result</i>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>That is it—the most we know—alternate eras of evolution +and dissolution. In the past there have been other evolutions +similar to that one in which we live, and in the future there may be +other similar evolutions—that is all. The principle of all +these evolutions remains, but the concrete results are never twice alike. +Man was not; he was; and again he will not be. In eternity which +is beyond our comprehension, the particular evolution of that solar +satellite we call the “Earth” occupied but a slight fraction +of time. And of that fraction of time man occupies but a small +portion. All the whole human drift, from the first ape-man to +the last savant, is but a phantom, a flash of light and a flutter of +movement across the infinite face of the starry night.</p> +<p>When the thermometer drops, man ceases—with all his lusts and +wrestlings and achievements; with all his race-adventures and race-tragedies; +and with all his red killings, billions upon billions of human lives +multiplied by as many billions more. This is the last word of +Science, unless there be some further, unguessed word which Science +will some day find and utter. In the meantime it sees no farther +than the starry void, where the “fleeting systems lapse like foam.” +Of what ledger-account is the tiny life of man in a vastness where stars +snuff out like candles and great suns blaze for a time-tick of eternity +and are gone?</p> +<p>And for us who live, no worse can happen than has happened to the +earliest drifts of man, marked to-day by ruined cities of forgotten +civilisation—ruined cities, which, on excavation, are found to +rest on ruins of earlier cities, city upon city, and fourteen cities, +down to a stratum where, still earlier, wandering herdsmen drove their +flocks, and where, even preceding them, wild hunters chased their prey +long after the cave-man and the man of the squatting-place cracked the +knuckle-bones of wild animals and vanished from the earth. There +is nothing terrible about it. With Richard Hovey, when he faced +his death, we can say: “Behold! I have lived!” +And with another and greater one, we can lay ourselves down with a will. +The one drop of living, the one taste of being, has been good; and perhaps +our greatest achievement will be that we dreamed immortality, even though +we failed to realise it.</p> +<h2>SMALL-BOAT SAILING</h2> +<p>A sailor is born, not made. And by “sailor” is +meant, not the average efficient and hopeless creature who is found +to-day in the forecastle of deepwater ships, but the man who will take +a fabric compounded of wood and iron and rope and canvas and compel +it to obey his will on the surface of the sea. Barring captains +and mates of big ships, the small-boat sailor is the real sailor. +He knows—he must know—how to make the wind carry his craft +from one given point to another given point. He must know about +tides and rips and eddies, bar and channel markings, and day and night +signals; he must be wise in weather-lore; and he must be sympathetically +familiar with the peculiar qualities of his boat which differentiate +it from every other boat that was ever built and rigged. He must +know how to gentle her about, as one instance of a myriad, and to fill +her on the other tack without deadening her way or allowing her to fall +off too far.</p> +<p>The deepwater sailor of to-day needs know none of these things. +And he doesn’t. He pulls and hauls as he is ordered, swabs +decks, washes paint, and chips iron-rust. He knows nothing, and +cares less. Put him in a small boat and he is helpless. +He will cut an even better figure on the hurricane deck of a horse.</p> +<p>I shall never forget my child-astonishment when I first encountered +one of these strange beings. He was a runaway English sailor. +I was a lad of twelve, with a decked-over, fourteen-foot, centre-board +skiff which I had taught myself to sail. I sat at his feet as +at the feet of a god, while he discoursed of strange lands and peoples, +deeds of violence, and hair-raising gales at sea. Then, one day, +I took him for a sail. With all the trepidation of the veriest +little amateur, I hoisted sail and got under way. Here was a man, +looking on critically, I was sure, who knew more in one second about +boats and the water than I could ever know. After an interval, +in which I exceeded myself, he took the tiller and the sheet. +I sat on the little thwart amidships, open-mouthed, prepared to learn +what real sailing was. My mouth remained open, for I learned what +a real sailor was in a small boat. He couldn’t trim the +sheet to save himself, he nearly capsized several times in squalls, +and, once again, by blunderingly jibing over; he didn’t know what +a centre-board was for, nor did he know that in running a boat before +the wind one must sit in the middle instead of on the side; and finally, +when we came back to the wharf, he ran the skiff in full tilt, shattering +her nose and carrying away the mast-step. And yet he was a really +truly sailor fresh from the vasty deep.</p> +<p>Which points my moral. A man can sail in the forecastles of +big ships all his life and never know what real sailing is. From +the time I was twelve, I listened to the lure of the sea. When +I was fifteen I was captain and owner of an oyster-pirate sloop. +By the time I was sixteen I was sailing in scow-schooners, fishing salmon +with the Greeks up the Sacramento River, and serving as sailor on the +Fish Patrol. And I was a good sailor, too, though all my cruising +had been on San Francisco Bay and the rivers tributary to it. +I had never been on the ocean in my life.</p> +<p>Then, the month I was seventeen, I signed before the mast as an able +seaman on a three-top-mast schooner bound on a seven-months’ cruise +across the Pacific and back again. As my shipmates promptly informed +me, I had had my nerve with me to sign on as able seaman. Yet +behold, I <i>was</i> an able seaman. I had graduated from the +right school. It took no more than minutes to learn the names +and uses of the few new ropes. It was simple. I did not +do things blindly. As a small-boat sailor I had learned to reason +out and know the <i>why</i> of everything. It is true, I had to +learn how to steer by compass, which took maybe half a minute; but when +it came to steering “full-and-by” and “close-and-by,” +I could beat the average of my shipmates, because that was the very +way I had always sailed. Inside fifteen minutes I could box the +compass around and back again. And there was little else to learn +during that seven-months’ cruise, except fancy rope-sailorising, +such as the more complicated lanyard knots and the making of various +kinds of sennit and rope-mats. The point of all of which is that +it is by means of small-boat sailing that the real sailor is best schooled.</p> +<p>And if a man is a born sailor, and has gone to the school of the +sea, never in all his life can he get away from the sea again. +The salt of it is in his bones as well as his nostrils, and the sea +will call to him until he dies. Of late years, I have found easier +ways of earning a living. I have quit the forecastle for keeps, +but always I come back to the sea. In my case it is usually San +Francisco Bay, than which no lustier, tougher, sheet of water can be +found for small-boat sailing.</p> +<p>It really blows on San Francisco Bay. During the winter, which +is the best cruising season, we have southeasters, southwesters, and +occasional howling northers. Throughout the summer we have what +we call the “sea-breeze,” an unfailing wind off the Pacific +that on most afternoons in the week blows what the Atlantic Coast yachtsmen +would name a gale. They are always surprised by the small spread +of canvas our yachts carry. Some of them, with schooners they +have sailed around the Horn, have looked proudly at their own lofty +sticks and huge spreads, then patronisingly and even pityingly at ours. +Then, perchance, they have joined in a club cruise from San Francisco +to Mare Island. They found the morning run up the Bay delightful. +In the afternoon, when the brave west wind ramped across San Pablo Bay +and they faced it on the long beat home, things were somewhat different. +One by one, like a flight of swallows, our more meagrely sparred and +canvassed yachts went by, leaving them wallowing and dead and shortening +down in what they called a gale but which we called a dandy sailing +breeze. The next time they came out, we would notice their sticks +cut down, their booms shortened, and their after-leeches nearer the +luffs by whole cloths.</p> +<p>As for excitement, there is all the difference in the world between +a ship in trouble at sea, and a small boat in trouble on land-locked +water. Yet for genuine excitement and thrill, give me the small +boat. Things happen so quickly, and there are always so few to +do the work—and hard work, too, as the small-boat sailor knows. +I have toiled all night, both watches on deck, in a typhoon off the +coast of Japan, and been less exhausted than by two hours’ work +at reefing down a thirty-foot sloop and heaving up two anchors on a +lee shore in a screaming southeaster.</p> +<p>Hard work and excitement? Let the wind baffle and drop in a +heavy tide-way just as you are sailing your little sloop through a narrow +draw-bridge. Behold your sails, upon which you are depending, +flap with sudden emptiness, and then see the impish wind, with a haul +of eight points, fill your jib aback with a gusty puff. Around +she goes, and sweeps, not through the open draw, but broadside on against +the solid piles. Hear the roar of the tide, sucking through the +trestle. And hear and see your pretty, fresh-painted boat crash +against the piles. Feel her stout little hull give to the impact. +See the rail actually pinch in. Hear your canvas tearing, and +see the black, square-ended timbers thrusting holes through it. +Smash! There goes your topmast stay, and the topmast reels over +drunkenly above you. There is a ripping and crunching. If +it continues, your starboard shrouds will be torn out. Grab a +rope—any rope—and take a turn around a pile. But the +free end of the rope is too short. You can’t make it fast, +and you hold on and wildly yell for your one companion to get a turn +with another and longer rope. Hold on! You hold on till +you are purple in the face, till it seems your arms are dragging out +of their sockets, till the blood bursts from the ends of your fingers. +But you hold, and your partner gets the longer rope and makes it fast. +You straighten up and look at your hands. They are ruined. +You can scarcely relax the crooks of the fingers. The pain is +sickening. But there is no time. The skiff, which is always +perverse, is pounding against the barnacles on the piles which threaten +to scrape its gunwale off. It’s drop the peak! Down +jib! Then you run lines, and pull and haul and heave, and exchange +unpleasant remarks with the bridge-tender who is always willing to meet +you more than half way in such repartee. And finally, at the end +of an hour, with aching back, sweat-soaked shirt, and slaughtered hands, +you are through and swinging along on the placid, beneficent tide between +narrow banks where the cattle stand knee-deep and gaze wonderingly at +you. Excitement! Work! Can you beat it in a calm day +on the deep sea?</p> +<p>I’ve tried it both ways. I remember labouring in a fourteen +days’ gale off the coast of New Zealand. We were a tramp +collier, rusty and battered, with six thousand tons of coal in our hold. +Life lines were stretched fore and aft; and on our weather side, attached +to smokestack guys and rigging, were huge rope-nettings, hung there +for the purpose of breaking the force of the seas and so saving our +mess-room doors. But the doors were smashed and the mess-rooms +washed out just the same. And yet, out of it all, arose but the +one feeling, namely, of monotony.</p> +<p>In contrast with the foregoing, about the liveliest eight days of +my life were spent in a small boat on the west coast of Korea. +Never mind why I was thus voyaging up the Yellow Sea during the month +of February in below-zero weather. The point is that I was in +an open boat, a <i>sampan</i>, on a rocky coast where there were no +light-houses and where the tides ran from thirty to sixty feet. +My crew were Japanese fishermen. We did not speak each other’s +language. Yet there was nothing monotonous about that trip. +Never shall I forget one particular cold bitter dawn, when, in the thick +of driving snow, we took in sail and dropped our small anchor. +The wind was howling out of the northwest, and we were on a lee shore. +Ahead and astern, all escape was cut off by rocky headlands, against +whose bases burst the unbroken seas. To windward a short distance, +seen only between the snow-squalls, was a low rocky reef. It was +this that inadequately protected us from the whole Yellow Sea that thundered +in upon us.</p> +<p>The Japanese crawled under a communal rice mat and went to sleep. +I joined them, and for several hours we dozed fitfully. Then a +sea deluged us out with icy water, and we found several inches of snow +on top the mat. The reef to windward was disappearing under the +rising tide, and moment by moment the seas broke more strongly over +the rocks. The fishermen studied the shore anxiously. So +did I, and with a sailor’s eye, though I could see little chance +for a swimmer to gain that surf-hammered line of rocks. I made +signs toward the headlands on either flank. The Japanese shook +their heads. I indicated that dreadful lee shore. Still +they shook their heads and did nothing. My conclusion was that +they were paralysed by the hopelessness of the situation. Yet +our extremity increased with every minute, for the rising tide was robbing +us of the reef that served as buffer. It soon became a case of +swamping at our anchor. Seas were splashing on board in growing +volume, and we baled constantly. And still my fishermen crew eyed +the surf-battered shore and did nothing.</p> +<p>At last, after many narrow escapes from complete swamping, the fishermen +got into action. All hands tailed on to the anchor and hove it +up. For’ard, as the boat’s head paid off, we set a +patch of sail about the size of a flour-sack. And we headed straight +for shore. I unlaced my shoes, unbottoned my great-coat and coat, +and was ready to make a quick partial strip a minute or so before we +struck. But we didn’t strike, and, as we rushed in, I saw +the beauty of the situation. Before us opened a narrow channel, +frilled at its mouth with breaking seas. Yet, long before, when +I had scanned the shore closely, there had been no such channel. +<i>I had forgotten the thirty-foot tide</i>. And it was for this +tide that the Japanese had so precariously waited. We ran the +frill of breakers, curved into a tiny sheltered bay where the water +was scarcely flawed by the gale, and landed on a beach where the salt +sea of the last tide lay frozen in long curving lines. And this +was one gale of three in the course of those eight days in the <i>sampan</i>. +Would it have been beaten on a ship? I fear me the ship would +have gone aground on the outlying reef and that its people would have +been incontinently and monotonously drowned.</p> +<p>There are enough surprises and mishaps in a three-days’ cruise +in a small boat to supply a great ship on the ocean for a full year. +I remember, once, taking out on her trial trip a little thirty-footer +I had just bought. In six days we had two stiff blows, and, in +addition, one proper southwester and one rip-snorting southeaster. +The slight intervals between these blows were dead calms. Also, +in the six days, we were aground three times. Then, too, we tied +up to the bank in the Sacramento River, and, grounding by an accident +on the steep slope on a falling tide, nearly turned a side somersault +down the bank. In a stark calm and heavy tide in the Carquinez +Straits, where anchors skate on the channel-scoured bottom, we were +sucked against a big dock and smashed and bumped down a quarter of a +mile of its length before we could get clear. Two hours afterward, +on San Pablo Bay, the wind was piping up and we were reefing down. +It is no fun to pick up a skiff adrift in a heavy sea and gale. +That was our next task, for our skiff, swamping, parted both towing +painters we had bent on. Before we recovered it we had nearly +killed ourselves with exhaustion, and we certainly had strained the +sloop in every part from keelson to truck. And to cap it all, +coming into our home port, beating up the narrowest part of the San +Antonio Estuary, we had a shave of inches from collision with a big +ship in tow of a tug. I have sailed the ocean in far larger craft +a year at a time, in which period occurred no such chapter of moving +incident.</p> +<p>After all, the mishaps are almost the best part of small-boat sailing. +Looking back, they prove to be punctuations of joy. At the time +they try your mettle and your vocabulary, and may make you so pessimistic +as to believe that God has a grudge against you—but afterward, +ah, afterward, with what pleasure you remember them and with what gusto +do you relate them to your brother skippers in the fellowhood of small-boat +sailing!</p> +<p>A narrow, winding slough; a half tide, exposing mud surfaced with +gangrenous slime; the water itself filthy and discoloured by the waste +from the vats of a near-by tannery; the marsh grass on either side mottled +with all the shades of a decaying orchid; a crazy, ramshackled, ancient +wharf; and at the end of the wharf a small, white-painted sloop. +Nothing romantic about it. No hint of adventure. A splendid +pictorial argument against the alleged joys of small-boat sailing. +Possibly that is what Cloudesley and I thought, that sombre, leaden +morning as we turned out to cook breakfast and wash decks. The +latter was my stunt, but one look at the dirty water overside and another +at my fresh-painted deck, deterred me. After breakfast, we started +a game of chess. The tide continued to fall, and we felt the sloop +begin to list. We played on until the chess men began to fall +over. The list increased, and we went on deck. Bow-line +and stern-line were drawn taut. As we looked the boat listed still +farther with an abrupt jerk. The lines were now very taut.</p> +<p>“As soon as her belly touches the bottom she will stop,” +I said.</p> +<p>Cloudesley sounded with a boat-hook along the outside.</p> +<p>“Seven feet of water,” he announced. “The +bank is almost up and down. The first thing that touches will +be her mast when she turns bottom up.”</p> +<p>An ominous, minute snapping noise came from the stern-line. +Even as we looked, we saw a strand fray and part. Then we jumped. +Scarcely had we bent another line between the stern and the wharf, when +the original line parted. As we bent another line for’ard, +the original one there crackled and parted. After that, it was +an inferno of work and excitement.</p> +<p>We ran more and more lines, and more and more lines continued to +part, and more and more the pretty boat went over on her side. +We bent all our spare lines; we unrove sheets and halyards; we used +our two-inch hawser; we fastened lines part way up the mast, half way +up, and everywhere else. We toiled and sweated and enounced our +mutual and sincere conviction that God’s grudge still held against +us. Country yokels came down on the wharf and sniggered at us. +When Cloudesley let a coil of rope slip down the inclined deck into +the vile slime and fished it out with seasick countenance, the yokels +sniggered louder and it was all I could do to prevent him from climbing +up on the wharf and committing murder.</p> +<p>By the time the sloop’s deck was perpendicular, we had unbent +the boom-lift from below, made it fast to the wharf, and, with the other +end fast nearly to the mast-head, heaved it taut with block and tackle. +The lift was of steel wire. We were confident that it could stand +the strain, but we doubted the holding-power of the stays that held +the mast.</p> +<p>The tide had two more hours to ebb (and it was the big run-out), +which meant that five hours must elapse ere the returning tide would +give us a chance to learn whether or not the sloop would rise to it +and right herself.</p> +<p>The bank was almost up and down, and at the bottom, directly beneath +us, the fast-ebbing tide left a pit of the vilest, illest-smelling, +illest-appearing muck to be seen in many a day’s ride. Said +Cloudesley to me gazing down into it:</p> +<p>“I love you as a brother. I’d fight for you. +I’d face roaring lions, and sudden death by field and flood. +But just the same, don’t you fall into that.” He shuddered +nauseously. “For if you do, I haven’t the grit to +pull you out. I simply couldn’t. You’d be awful. +The best I could do would be to take a boat-hook and shove you down +out of sight.”</p> +<p>We sat on the upper side-wall of the cabin, dangled our legs down +the top of the cabin, leaned our backs against the deck, and played +chess until the rising tide and the block and tackle on the boom-lift +enabled us to get her on a respectable keel again. Years afterward, +down in the South Seas, on the island of Ysabel, I was caught in a similar +predicament. In order to clean her copper, I had careened the +<i>Snark</i> broadside on to the beach and outward. When the tide +rose, she refused to rise. The water crept in through the scuppers, +mounted over the rail, and the level of the ocean slowly crawled up +the slant of the deck. We battened down the engine-room hatch, +and the sea rose to it and over it and climbed perilously near to the +cabin companion-way and skylight. We were all sick with fever, +but we turned out in the blazing tropic sun and toiled madly for several +hours. We carried our heaviest lines ashore from our mast-heads +and heaved with our heaviest purchase until everything crackled including +ourselves. We would spell off and lie down like dead men, then +get up and heave and crackle again. And in the end, our lower +rail five feet under water and the wavelets lapping the companion-way +combing, the sturdy little craft shivered and shook herself and pointed +her masts once more to the zenith.</p> +<p>There is never lack of exercise in small-boat sailing, and the hard +work is not only part of the fun of it, but it beats the doctors. +San Francisco Bay is no mill pond. It is a large and draughty +and variegated piece of water. I remember, one winter evening, +trying to enter the mouth of the Sacramento. There was a freshet +on the river, the flood tide from the bay had been beaten back into +a strong ebb, and the lusty west wind died down with the sun. +It was just sunset, and with a fair to middling breeze, dead aft, we +stood still in the rapid current. We were squarely in the mouth +of the river; but there was no anchorage and we drifted backward, faster +and faster, and dropped anchor outside as the last breath of wind left +us. The night came on, beautiful and warm and starry. My +one companion cooked supper, while on deck I put everything in shape +Bristol fashion. When we turned in at nine o’clock the weather-promise +was excellent. (If I had carried a barometer I’d have known +better.) By two in the morning our shrouds were thrumming in a +piping breeze, and I got up and gave her more scope on her hawser. +Inside another hour there was no doubt that we were in for a southeaster.</p> +<p>It is not nice to leave a warm bed and get out of a bad anchorage +in a black blowy night, but we arose to the occasion, put in two reefs, +and started to heave up. The winch was old, and the strain of +the jumping head sea was too much for it. With the winch out of +commission, it was impossible to heave up by hand. We knew, because +we tried it and slaughtered our hands. Now a sailor hates to lose +an anchor. It is a matter of pride. Of course, we could +have buoyed ours and slipped it. Instead, however, I gave her +still more hawser, veered her, and dropped the second anchor.</p> +<p>There was little sleep after that, for first one and then the other +of us would be rolled out of our bunks. The increasing size of +the seas told us we were dragging, and when we struck the scoured channel +we could tell by the feel of it that our two anchors were fairly skating +across. It was a deep channel, the farther edge of it rising steeply +like the wall of a canyon, and when our anchors started up that wall +they hit in and held.</p> +<p>Yet, when we fetched up, through the darkness we could hear the seas +breaking on the solid shore astern, and so near was it that we shortened +the skiff’s painter.</p> +<p>Daylight showed us that between the stern of the skiff and destruction +was no more than a score of feet. And how it did blow! There +were times, in the gusts, when the wind must have approached a velocity +of seventy or eighty miles an hour. But the anchors held, and +so nobly that our final anxiety was that the for’ard bitts would +be jerked clean out of the boat. All day the sloop alternately +ducked her nose under and sat down on her stern; and it was not till +late afternoon that the storm broke in one last and worst mad gust. +For a full five minutes an absolute dead calm prevailed, and then, with +the suddenness of a thunderclap, the wind snorted out of the southwest—a +shift of eight points and a boisterous gale. Another night of +it was too much for us, and we hove up by hand in a cross head-sea. +It was not stiff work. It was heart-breaking. And I know +we were both near to crying from the hurt and the exhaustion. +And when we did get the first anchor up-and-down we couldn’t break +it out. Between seas we snubbed her nose down to it, took plenty +of turns, and stood clear as she jumped. Almost everything smashed +and parted except the anchor-hold. The chocks were jerked out, +the rail torn off, and the very covering-board splintered, and still +the anchor held. At last, hoisting the reefed mainsail and slacking +off a few of the hard-won feet of the chain, we sailed the anchor out. +It was nip and tuck, though, and there were times when the boat was +knocked down flat. We repeated the manoeuvre with the remaining +anchor, and in the gathering darkness fled into the shelter of the river’s +mouth.</p> +<p>I was born so long ago that I grew up before the era of gasolene. +As a result, I am old-fashioned. I prefer a sail-boat to a motor-boat, +and it is my belief that boat-sailing is a finer, more difficult, and +sturdier art than running a motor. Gasolene engines are becoming +fool-proof, and while it is unfair to say that any fool can run an engine, +it is fair to say that almost any one can. Not so, when it comes +to sailing a boat. More skill, more intelligence, and a vast deal +more training are necessary. It is the finest training in the +world for boy and youth and man. If the boy is very small, equip +him with a small, comfortable skiff. He will do the rest. +He won’t need to be taught. Shortly he will be setting a +tiny leg-of-mutton and steering with an oar. Then he will begin +to talk keels and centreboards and want to take his blankets out and +stop aboard all night.</p> +<p>But don’t be afraid for him. He is bound to run risks +and encounter accidents. Remember, there are accidents in the +nursery as well as out on the water. More boys have died from +hot-house culture than have died on boats large and small; and more +boys have been made into strong and reliant men by boat-sailing than +by lawn-croquet and dancing-school.</p> +<p>And once a sailor, always a sailor. The savour of the salt +never stales. The sailor never grows so old that he does not care +to go back for one more wrestling bout with wind and wave. I know +it of myself. I have turned rancher, and live beyond sight of +the sea. Yet I can stay away from it only so long. After +several months have passed, I begin to grow restless. I find myself +day-dreaming over incidents of the last cruise, or wondering if the +striped bass are running on Wingo Slough, or eagerly reading the newspapers +for reports of the first northern flights of ducks. And then, +suddenly, there is a hurried pack of suit-cases and overhauling of gear, +and we are off for Vallejo where the little <i>Roamer</i> lies, waiting, +always waiting, for the skiff to come alongside, for the lighting of +the fire in the galley-stove, for the pulling off of gaskets, the swinging +up of the mainsail, and the rat-tat-tat of the reef-points, for the +heaving short and the breaking out, and for the twirling of the wheel +as she fills away and heads up Bay or down.</p> +<p>JACK LONDON<br /> +On Board <i>Roamer</i>,<br /> +Sonoma Creek,<br /> +April 15, 1911</p> +<h2>FOUR HORSES AND A SAILOR</h2> +<p>“Huh! Drive four horses! I wouldn’t sit behind +you—not for a thousand dollars—over them mountain roads.”</p> +<p>So said Henry, and he ought to have known, for he drives four horses +himself.</p> +<p>Said another Glen Ellen friend: “What? London? +He drive four horses? Can’t drive one!”</p> +<p>And the best of it is that he was right. Even after managing +to get a few hundred miles with my four horses, I don’t know how +to drive one. Just the other day, swinging down a steep mountain +road and rounding an abrupt turn, I came full tilt on a horse and buggy +being driven by a woman up the hill. We could not pass on the +narrow road, where was only a foot to spare, and my horses did not know +how to back, especially up-hill. About two hundred yards down +the hill was a spot where we could pass. The driver of the buggy +said she didn’t dare back down because she was not sure of the +brake. And as I didn’t know how to tackle one horse, I didn’t +try it. So we unhitched her horse and backed down by hand. +Which was very well, till it came to hitching the horse to the buggy +again. She didn’t know how. I didn’t either, +and I had depended on her knowledge. It took us about half an +hour, with frequent debates and consultations, though it is an absolute +certainty that never in its life was that horse hitched in that particular +way.</p> +<p>No; I can’t harness up one horse. But I can four, which +compels me to back up again to get to my beginning. Having selected +Sonoma Valley for our abiding place, Charmian and I decided it was about +time we knew what we had in our own county and the neighbouring ones. +How to do it, was the first question. Among our many weaknesses +is the one of being old-fashioned. We don’t mix with gasolene +very well. And, as true sailors should, we naturally gravitate +toward horses. Being one of those lucky individuals who carries +his office under his hat, I should have to take a typewriter and a load +of books along. This put saddle-horses out of the running. +Charmian suggested driving a span. She had faith in me; besides, +she could drive a span herself. But when I thought of the many +mountains to cross, and of crossing them for three months with a poor +tired span, I vetoed the proposition and said we’d have to come +back to gasolene after all. This she vetoed just as emphatically, +and a deadlock obtained until I received inspiration.</p> +<p>“Why not drive four horses?” I said.</p> +<p>“But you don’t know how to drive four horses,” +was her objection.</p> +<p>I threw my chest out and my shoulders back. “What man +has done, I can do,” I proclaimed grandly. “And please +don’t forget that when we sailed on the <i>Snark</i> I knew nothing +of navigation, and that I taught myself as I sailed.”</p> +<p>“Very well,” she said. (And there’s faith +for you! ) “They shall be four saddle horses, and we’ll +strap our saddles on behind the rig.”</p> +<p>It was my turn to object. “Our saddle horses are not +broken to harness.”</p> +<p>“Then break them.”</p> +<p>And what I knew about horses, much less about breaking them, was +just about as much as any sailor knows. Having been kicked, bucked +off, fallen over backward upon, and thrown out and run over, on very +numerous occasions, I had a mighty vigorous respect for horses; but +a wife’s faith must be lived up to, and I went at it.</p> +<p>King was a polo pony from St. Louis, and Prince a many-gaited love-horse +from Pasadena. The hardest thing was to get them to dig in and +pull. They rollicked along on the levels and galloped down the +hills, but when they struck an up-grade and felt the weight of the breaking-cart, +they stopped and turned around and looked at me. But I passed +them, and my troubles began. Milda was fourteen years old, an +unadulterated broncho, and in temperament was a combination of mule +and jack-rabbit blended equally. If you pressed your hand on her +flank and told her to get over, she lay down on you. If you got +her by the head and told her to back, she walked forward over you. +And if you got behind her and shoved and told her to “Giddap!” +she sat down on you. Also, she wouldn’t walk. For +endless weary miles I strove with her, but never could I get her to +walk a step. Finally, she was a manger-glutton. No matter +how near or far from the stable, when six o’clock came around +she bolted for home and never missed the directest cross-road. +Many times I rejected her.</p> +<p>The fourth and most rejected horse of all was the Outlaw. From +the age of three to seven she had defied all horse-breakers and broken +a number of them. Then a long, lanky cowboy, with a fifty-pound +saddle and a Mexican bit had got her proud goat. I was the next +owner. She was my favourite riding horse. Charmian said +I’d have to put her in as a wheeler where I would have more control +over her. Now Charmian had a favourite riding mare called Maid. +I suggested Maid as a substitute. Charmian pointed out that my +mare was a branded range horse, while hers was a near-thoroughbred, +and that the legs of her mare would be ruined forever if she were driven +for three months. I acknowledged her mare’s thoroughbredness, +and at the same time defied her to find any thoroughbred with as small +and delicately-viciously pointed ears as my Outlaw. She indicated +Maid’s exquisitely thin shinbone. I measured the Outlaw’s. +It was equally thin, although, I insinuated, possibly more durable. +This stabbed Charmian’s pride. Of course her near-thoroughbred +Maid, carrying the blood of “old” Lexington, Morella, and +a streak of the super-enduring Morgan, could run, walk, and work my +unregistered Outlaw into the ground; and that was the very precise reason +why such a paragon of a saddle animal should not be degraded by harness.</p> +<p>So it was that Charmian remained obdurate, until, one day, I got +her behind the Outlaw for a forty-mile drive. For every inch of +those forty miles the Outlaw kicked and jumped, in between the kicks +and jumps finding time and space in which to seize its team-mate by +the back of the neck and attempt to drag it to the ground. Another +trick the Outlaw developed during that drive was suddenly to turn at +right angles in the traces and endeavour to butt its team-mate over +the grade. Reluctantly and nobly did Charmian give in and consent +to the use of Maid. The Outlaw’s shoes were pulled off, +and she was turned out on range.</p> +<p>Finally, the four horses were hooked to the rig—a light Studebaker +trap. With two hours and a half of practice, in which the excitement +was not abated by several jack-poles and numerous kicking matches, I +announced myself as ready for the start. Came the morning, and +Prince, who was to have been a wheeler with Maid, showed up with a badly +kicked shoulder. He did not exactly show up; we had to find him, +for he was unable to walk. His leg swelled and continually swelled +during the several days we waited for him. Remained only the Outlaw. +In from pasture she came, shoes were nailed on, and she was harnessed +into the wheel. Friends and relatives strove to press accident +policies on me, but Charmian climbed up alongside, and Nakata got into +the rear seat with the typewriter—Nakata, who sailed cabin-boy +on the Snark for two years and who had shown himself afraid of nothing, +not even of me and my amateur jamborees in experimenting with new modes +of locomotion. And we did very nicely, thank you, especially after +the first hour or so, during which time the Outlaw had kicked about +fifty various times, chiefly to the damage of her own legs and the paintwork, +and after she had bitten a couple of hundred times, to the damage of +Maid’s neck and Charmian’s temper. It was hard enough +to have her favourite mare in the harness without also enduring the +spectacle of its being eaten alive.</p> +<p>Our leaders were joys. King being a polo pony and Milda a rabbit, +they rounded curves beautifully and darted ahead like coyotes out of +the way of the wheelers. Milda’s besetting weakness was +a frantic desire not to have the lead-bar strike her hocks. When +this happened, one of three things occurred: either she sat down on +the lead-bar, kicked it up in the air until she got her back under it, +or exploded in a straight-ahead, harness-disrupting jump. Not +until she carried the lead-bar clean away and danced a break-down on +it and the traces, did she behave decently. Nakata and I made +the repairs with good old-fashioned bale-rope, which is stronger than +wrought-iron any time, and we went on our way.</p> +<p>In the meantime I was learning—I shall not say to tool a four-in-hand—but +just simply to drive four horses. Now it is all right enough to +begin with four work-horses pulling a load of several tons. But +to begin with four light horses, all running, and a light rig that seems +to outrun them—well, when things happen they happen quickly. +My weakness was total ignorance. In particular, my fingers lacked +training, and I made the mistake of depending on my eyes to handle the +reins. This brought me up against a disastrous optical illusion. +The bight of the off head-line, being longer and heavier than that of +the off wheel-line, hung lower. In a moment requiring quick action, +I invariably mistook the two lines. Pulling on what I thought +was the wheel-line, in order to straighten the team, I would see the +leaders swing abruptly around into a jack-pole. Now for sensations +of sheer impotence, nothing can compare with a jack-pole, when the horrified +driver beholds his leaders prancing gaily up the road and his wheelers +jogging steadily down the road, all at the same time and all harnessed +together and to the same rig.</p> +<p>I no longer jack-pole, and I don’t mind admitting how I got +out of the habit. It was my eyes that enslaved my fingers into +ill practices. So I shut my eyes and let the fingers go it alone. +To-day my fingers are independent of my eyes and work automatically. +I do not see what my fingers do. They just do it. All I +see is the satisfactory result.</p> +<p>Still we managed to get over the ground that first day—down +sunny Sonoma Valley to the old town of Sonoma, founded by General Vallejo +as the remotest outpost on the northern frontier for the purpose of +holding back the Gentiles, as the wild Indians of those days were called. +Here history was made. Here the last Spanish mission was reared; +here the Bear flag was raised; and here Kit Carson, and Fremont, and +all our early adventurers came and rested in the days before the days +of gold.</p> +<p>We swung on over the low, rolling hills, through miles of dairy farms +and chicken ranches where every blessed hen is white, and down the slopes +to Petaluma Valley. Here, in 1776, Captain Quiros came up Petaluma +Creek from San Pablo Bay in quest of an outlet to Bodega Bay on the +coast. And here, later, the Russians, with Alaskan hunters, carried +skin boats across from Fort Ross to poach for sea-otters on the Spanish +preserve of San Francisco Bay. Here, too, still later, General +Vallejo built a fort, which still stands—one of the finest examples +of Spanish adobe that remain to us. And here, at the old fort, +to bring the chronicle up to date, our horses proceeded to make peculiarly +personal history with astonishing success and dispatch. King, +our peerless, polo-pony leader, went lame. So hopelessly lame +did he go that no expert, then and afterward, could determine whether +the lameness was in his frogs, hoofs, legs, shoulders, or head. +Maid picked up a nail and began to limp. Milda, figuring the day +already sufficiently spent and maniacal with manger-gluttony, began +to rabbit-jump. All that held her was the bale-rope. And +the Outlaw, game to the last, exceeded all previous exhibitions of skin-removing, +paint-marring, and horse-eating.</p> +<p>At Petaluma we rested over while King was returned to the ranch and +Prince sent to us. Now Prince had proved himself an excellent +wheeler, yet he had to go into the lead and let the Outlaw retain his +old place. There is an axiom that a good wheeler is a poor leader. +I object to the last adjective. A good wheeler makes an infinitely +worse kind of a leader than that. I know . . . now. I ought +to know. Since that day I have driven Prince a few hundred miles +in the lead. He is neither any better nor any worse than the first +mile he ran in the lead; and his worst is even extremely worse than +what you are thinking. Not that he is vicious. He is merely +a good-natured rogue who shakes hands for sugar, steps on your toes +out of sheer excessive friendliness, and just goes on loving you in +your harshest moments.</p> +<p>But he won’t get out of the way. Also, whenever he is +reproved for being in the wrong, he accuses Milda of it and bites the +back of her neck. So bad has this become that whenever I yell +“Prince!” in a loud voice, Milda immediately rabbit-jumps +to the side, straight ahead, or sits down on the lead-bar. All +of which is quite disconcerting. Picture it yourself. You +are swinging round a sharp, down-grade, mountain curve, at a fast trot. +The rock wall is the outside of the curve. The inside of the curve +is a precipice. The continuance of the curve is a narrow, unrailed +bridge. You hit the curve, throwing the leaders in against the +wall and making the polo-horse do the work. All is lovely. +The leaders are hugging the wall like nestling doves. But the +moment comes in the evolution when the leaders must shoot out ahead. +They really must shoot, or else they’ll hit the wall and miss +the bridge. Also, behind them are the wheelers, and the rig, and +you have just eased the brake in order to put sufficient snap into the +manoeuvre. If ever team-work is required, now is the time. +Milda tries to shoot. She does her best, but Prince, bubbling +over with roguishness, lags behind. He knows the trick. +Milda is half a length ahead of him. He times it to the fraction +of a second. Maid, in the wheel, over-running him, naturally bites +him. This disturbs the Outlaw, who has been behaving beautifully, +and she immediately reaches across for Maid. Simultaneously, with +a fine display of firm conviction that it’s all Milda’s +fault, Prince sinks his teeth into the back of Milda’s defenceless +neck. The whole thing has occurred in less than a second. +Under the surprise and pain of the bite, Milda either jumps ahead to +the imminent peril of harness and lead-bar, or smashes into the wall, +stops short with the lead-bar over her back, and emits a couple of hysterical +kicks. The Outlaw invariably selects this moment to remove paint. +And after things are untangled and you have had time to appreciate the +close shave, you go up to Prince and reprove him with your choicest +vocabulary. And Prince, gazelle-eyed and tender, offers to shake +hands with you for sugar. I leave it to any one: a boat would +never act that way.</p> +<p>We have some history north of the Bay. Nearly three centuries +and a half ago, that doughty pirate and explorer, Sir Francis Drake, +combing the Pacific for Spanish galleons, anchored in the bight formed +by Point Reyes, on which to-day is one of the richest dairy regions +in the world. Here, less than two decades after Drake, Sebastien +Carmenon piled up on the rocks with a silk-laden galleon from the Philippines. +And in this same bay of Drake, long afterward, the Russian fur-poachers +rendezvous’d their <i>bidarkas</i> and stole in through the Golden +Gate to the forbidden waters of San Francisco Bay.</p> +<p>Farther up the coast, in Sonoma County, we pilgrimaged to the sites +of the Russian settlements. At Bodega Bay, south of what to-day +is called Russian River, was their anchorage, while north of the river +they built their fort. And much of Fort Ross still stands. +Log-bastions, church, and stables hold their own, and so well, with +rusty hinges creaking, that we warmed ourselves at the hundred-years-old +double fireplace and slept under the hand-hewn roof beams still held +together by spikes of hand-wrought iron.</p> +<p>We went to see where history had been made, and we saw scenery as +well. One of our stretches in a day’s drive was from beautiful +Inverness on Tomales Bay, down the Olema Valley to Bolinas Bay, along +the eastern shore of that body of water to Willow Camp, and up over +the sea-bluffs, around the bastions of Tamalpais, and down to Sausalito. +From the head of Bolinas Bay to Willow Camp the drive on the edge of +the beach, and actually, for half-mile stretches, in the waters of the +bay itself, was a delightful experience. The wonderful part was +to come. Very few San Franciscans, much less Californians, know +of that drive from Willow Camp, to the south and east, along the poppy-blown +cliffs, with the sea thundering in the sheer depths hundreds of feet +below and the Golden Gate opening up ahead, disclosing smoky San Francisco +on her many hills. Far off, blurred on the breast of the sea, +can be seen the Farallones, which Sir Francis Drake passed on a S. W. +course in the thick of what he describes as a “stynking fog.” +Well might he call it that, and a few other names, for it was the fog +that robbed him of the glory of discovering San Francisco Bay.</p> +<p>It was on this part of the drive that I decided at last I was learning +real mountain-driving. To confess the truth, for delicious titillation +of one’s nerve, I have since driven over no mountain road that +was worse, or better, rather, than that piece.</p> +<p>And then the contrast! From Sausalito, over excellent, park-like +boulevards, through the splendid redwoods and homes of Mill Valley, +across the blossomed hills of Marin County, along the knoll-studded +picturesque marshes, past San Rafael resting warmly among her hills, +over the divide and up the Petaluma Valley, and on to the grassy feet +of Sonoma Mountain and home. We covered fifty-five miles that +day. Not so bad, eh, for Prince the Rogue, the paint-removing +Outlaw, the thin-shanked thoroughbred, and the rabbit-jumper? +And they came in cool and dry, ready for their mangers and the straw.</p> +<p>Oh, we didn’t stop. We considered we were just starting, +and that was many weeks ago. We have kept on going over six counties +which are comfortably large, even for California, and we are still going. +We have twisted and tabled, criss-crossed our tracks, made fascinating +and lengthy dives into the interior valleys in the hearts of Napa and +Lake Counties, travelled the coast for hundreds of miles on end, and +are now in Eureka, on Humboldt Bay, which was discovered by accident +by the gold-seekers, who were trying to find their way to and from the +Trinity diggings. Even here, the white man’s history preceded +them, for dim tradition says that the Russians once anchored here and +hunted sea-otter before the first Yankee trader rounded the Horn, or +the first Rocky Mountain trapper thirsted across the “Great American +Desert” and trickled down the snowy Sierras to the sun-kissed +land. No; we are not resting our horses here on Humboldt Bay. +We are writing this article, gorging on abalones and mussels, digging +clams, and catching record-breaking sea-trout and rock-cod in the intervals +in which we are not sailing, motor-boating, and swimming in the most +temperately equable climate we have ever experienced.</p> +<p>These comfortably large counties! They are veritable empires. +Take Humboldt, for instance. It is three times as large as Rhode +Island, one and a half times as large as Delaware, almost as large as +Connecticut, and half as large as Massachusetts. The pioneer has +done his work in this north of the bay region, the foundations are laid, +and all is ready for the inevitable inrush of population and adequate +development of resources which so far have been no more than skimmed, +and casually and carelessly skimmed at that. This region of the +six counties alone will some day support a population of millions. +In the meanwhile, O you home-seekers, you wealth-seekers, and, above +all, you climate-seekers, now is the time to get in on the ground floor.</p> +<p>Robert Ingersoll once said that the genial climate of California +would in a fairly brief time evolve a race resembling the Mexicans, +and that in two or three generations the Californians would be seen +of a Sunday morning on their way to a cockfight with a rooster under +each arm. Never was made a rasher generalisation, based on so +absolute an ignorance of facts. It is to laugh. Here is +a climate that breeds vigour, with just sufficient geniality to prevent +the expenditure of most of that vigour in fighting the elements. +Here is a climate where a man can work three hundred and sixty-five +days in the year without the slightest hint of enervation, and where +for three hundred and sixty-five nights he must perforce sleep under +blankets. What more can one say? I consider myself somewhat +of climate expert, having adventured among most of the climates of five +out of the six zones. I have not yet been in the Antarctic, but +whatever climate obtains there will not deter me from drawing the conclusion +that nowhere is there a climate to compare with that of this region. +Maybe I am as wrong as Ingersoll was. Nevertheless I take my medicine +by continuing to live in this climate. Also, it is the only medicine +I ever take.</p> +<p>But to return to the horses. There is some improvement. +Milda has actually learned to walk. Maid has proved her thoroughbredness +by never tiring on the longest days, and, while being the strongest +and highest spirited of all, by never causing any trouble save for an +occasional kick at the Outlaw. And the Outlaw rarely gallops, +no longer butts, only periodically kicks, comes in to the pole and does +her work without attempting to vivisect Maid’s medulla oblongata, +and—marvel of marvels—is really and truly getting lazy. +But Prince remains the same incorrigible, loving and lovable rogue he +has always been.</p> +<p>And the country we’ve been over! The drives through Napa +and Lake Counties! One, from Sonoma Valley, via Santa Rosa, we +could not refrain from taking several ways, and on all the ways we found +the roads excellent for machines as well as horses. One route, +and a more delightful one for an automobile cannot be found, is out +from Santa Rosa, past old Altruria and Mark West Springs, then to the +right and across to Calistoga in Napa Valley. By keeping to the +left, the drive holds on up the Russian River Valley, through the miles +of the noted Asti Vineyards to Cloverdale, and then by way of Pieta, +Witter, and Highland Springs to Lakeport. Still another way we +took, was down Sonoma Valley, skirting San Pablo Bay, and up the lovely +Napa Valley. From Napa were side excursions through Pope and Berryessa +Valleys, on to Ætna Springs, and still on, into Lake County, crossing +the famous Langtry Ranch.</p> +<p>Continuing up the Napa Valley, walled on either hand by great rock +palisades and redwood forests and carpeted with endless vineyards, and +crossing the many stone bridges for which the County is noted and which +are a joy to the beauty-loving eyes as well as to the four-horse tyro +driver, past Calistoga with its old mud-baths and chicken-soup springs, +with St. Helena and its giant saddle ever towering before us, we climbed +the mountains on a good grade and dropped down past the quicksilver +mines to the canyon of the Geysers. After a stop over night and +an exploration of the miniature-grand volcanic scene, we pulled on across +the canyon and took the grade where the cicadas simmered audibly in +the noon sunshine among the hillside manzanitas. Then, higher, +came the big cattle-dotted upland pastures, and the rocky summit. +And here on the summit, abruptly, we caught a vision, or what seemed +a mirage. The ocean we had left long days before, yet far down +and away shimmered a blue sea, framed on the farther shore by rugged +mountains, on the near shore by fat and rolling farm lands. Clear +Lake was before us, and like proper sailors we returned to our sea, +going for a sail, a fish, and a swim ere the day was done and turning +into tired Lakeport blankets in the early evening. Well has Lake +County been called the Walled-in County. But the railroad is coming. +They say the approach we made to Clear Lake is similar to the approach +to Lake Lucerne. Be that as it may, the scenery, with its distant +snow-capped peaks, can well be called Alpine.</p> +<p>And what can be more exquisite than the drive out from Clear Lake +to Ukiah by way of the Blue Lakes chain!—every turn bringing into +view a picture of breathless beauty; every glance backward revealing +some perfect composition in line and colour, the intense blue of the +water margined with splendid oaks, green fields, and swaths of orange +poppies. But those side glances and backward glances were provocative +of trouble. Charmian and I disagreed as to which way the connecting +stream of water ran. We still disagree, for at the hotel, where +we submitted the affair to arbitration, the hotel manager and the clerk +likewise disagreed. I assume, now, that we never will know which +way that stream runs. Charmian suggests “both ways.” +I refuse such a compromise. No stream of water I ever saw could +accomplish that feat at one and the same time. The greatest concession +I can make is that sometimes it may run one way and sometimes the other, +and that in the meantime we should both consult an oculist.</p> +<p>More valley from Ukiah to Willits, and then we turned westward through +the virgin Sherwood Forest of magnificent redwood, stopping at Alpine +for the night and continuing on through Mendocino County to Fort Bragg +and “salt water.” We also came to Fort Bragg up the +coast from Fort Ross, keeping our coast journey intact from the Golden +Gate. The coast weather was cool and delightful, the coast driving +superb. Especially in the Fort Ross section did we find the roads +thrilling, while all the way along we followed the sea. At every +stream, the road skirted dizzy cliff-edges, dived down into lush growths +of forest and ferns and climbed out along the cliff-edges again. +The way was lined with flowers—wild lilac, wild roses, poppies, +and lupins. Such lupins!—giant clumps of them, of every +lupin-shade and—colour. And it was along the Mendocino roads +that Charmian caused many delays by insisting on getting out to pick +the wild blackberries, strawberries, and thimble-berries which grew +so profusely. And ever we caught peeps, far down, of steam schooners +loading lumber in the rocky coves; ever we skirted the cliffs, day after +day, crossing stretches of rolling farm lands and passing through thriving +villages and saw-mill towns. Memorable was our launch-trip from +Mendocino City up Big River, where the steering gears of the launches +work the reverse of anywhere else in the world; where we saw a stream +of logs, of six to twelve and fifteen feet in diameter, which filled +the river bed for miles to the obliteration of any sign of water; and +where we were told of a white or albino redwood tree. We did not +see this last, so cannot vouch for it.</p> +<p>All the streams were filled with trout, and more than once we saw +the side-hill salmon on the slopes. No, side-hill salmon is not +a peripatetic fish; it is a deer out of season. But the trout! +At Gualala Charmian caught her first one. Once before in my life +I had caught two . . . on angleworms. On occasion I had tried +fly and spinner and never got a strike, and I had come to believe that +all this talk of fly-fishing was just so much nature-faking. But +on the Gualala River I caught trout—a lot of them—on fly +and spinners; and I was beginning to feel quite an expert, until Nakata, +fishing on bottom with a pellet of bread for bait, caught the biggest +trout of all. I now affirm there is nothing in science nor in +art. Nevertheless, since that day poles and baskets have been +added to our baggage, we tackle every stream we come to, and we no longer +are able to remember the grand total of our catch.</p> +<p>At Usal, many hilly and picturesque miles north of Fort Bragg, we +turned again into the interior of Mendocino, crossing the ranges and +coming out in Humboldt County on the south fork of Eel River at Garberville. +Throughout the trip, from Marin County north, we had been warned of +“bad roads ahead.” Yet we never found those bad roads. +We seemed always to be just ahead of them or behind them. The +farther we came the better the roads seemed, though this was probably +due to the fact that we were learning more and more what four horses +and a light rig could do on a road. And thus do I save my face +with all the counties. I refuse to make invidious road comparisons. +I can add that while, save in rare instances on steep pitches, I have +trotted my horses down all the grades, I have never had one horse fall +down nor have I had to send the rig to a blacksmith shop for repairs.</p> +<p>Also, I am learning to throw leather. If any tyro thinks it +is easy to take a short-handled, long-lashed whip, and throw the end +of that lash just where he wants it, let him put on automobile goggles +and try it. On reconsideration, I would suggest the substitution +of a wire fencing-mask for the goggles. For days I looked at that +whip. It fascinated me, and the fascination was composed mostly +of fear. At my first attempt, Charmian and Nakata became afflicted +with the same sort of fascination, and for a long time afterward, whenever +they saw me reach for the whip, they closed their eyes and shielded +their heads with their arms.</p> +<p>Here’s the problem. Instead of pulling honestly, Prince +is lagging back and manoeuvring for a bite at Milda’s neck. +I have four reins in my hands. I must put these four reins into +my left hand, properly gather the whip handle and the bight of the lash +in my right hand, and throw that lash past Maid without striking her +and into Prince. If the lash strikes Maid, her thoroughbredness +will go up in the air, and I’ll have a case of horse hysteria +on my hands for the next half hour. But follow. The whole +problem is not yet stated. Suppose that I miss Maid and reach +the intended target. The instant the lash cracks, the four horses +jump, Prince most of all, and his jump, with spread wicked teeth, is +for the back of Milda’s neck. She jumps to escape—which +is her second jump, for the first one came when the lash exploded. +The Outlaw reaches for Maid’s neck, and Maid, who has already +jumped and tried to bolt, tries to bolt harder. And all this infinitesimal +fraction of time I am trying to hold the four animals with my left hand, +while my whip-lash, writhing through the air, is coming back to me. +Three simultaneous things I must do: keep hold of the four reins with +my left hand; slam on the brake with my foot; and on the rebound catch +that flying lash in the hollow of my right arm and get the bight of +it safely into my right hand. Then I must get two of the four +lines back into my right hand and keep the horses from running away +or going over the grade. Try it some time. You will find +life anything but wearisome. Why, the first time I hit the mark +and made the lash go off like a revolver shot, I was so astounded and +delighted that I was paralysed. I forgot to do any of the multitudinous +other things, tangled the whip lash in Maid’s harness, and was +forced to call upon Charmian for assistance. And now, confession. +I carry a few pebbles handy. They’re great for reaching +Prince in a tight place. But just the same I’m learning +that whip every day, and before I get home I hope to discard the pebbles. +And as long as I rely on pebbles, I cannot truthfully speak of myself +as “tooling a four-in-hand.”</p> +<p>From Garberville, where we ate eel to repletion and got acquainted +with the aborigines, we drove down the Eel River Valley for two days +through the most unthinkably glorious body of redwood timber to be seen +anywhere in California. From Dyerville on to Eureka, we caught +glimpses of railroad construction and of great concrete bridges in the +course of building, which advertised that at least Humboldt County was +going to be linked to the rest of the world.</p> +<p>We still consider our trip is just begun. As soon as this is +mailed from Eureka, it’s heigh ho! for the horses and pull on. +We shall continue up the coast, turn in for Hoopa Reservation and the +gold mines, and shoot down the Trinity and Klamath rivers in Indian +canoes to Requa. After that, we shall go on through Del Norte +County and into Oregon. The trip so far has justified us in taking +the attitude that we won’t go home until the winter rains drive +us in. And, finally, I am going to try the experiment of putting +the Outlaw in the lead and relegating Prince to his old position in +the near wheel. I won’t need any pebbles then.</p> +<h2>NOTHING THAT EVER CAME TO ANYTHING</h2> +<p>It was at Quito, the mountain capital of Ecuador, that the following +passage at correspondence took place. Having occasion to buy a +pair of shoes in a shop six feet by eight in size and with walls three +feet thick, I noticed a mangy leopard skin on the floor. I had +no Spanish. The shop-keeper had no English. But I was an +adept at sign language. I wanted to know where I should go to +buy leopard skins. On my scribble-pad I drew the interesting streets +of a city. Then I drew a small shop, which, after much effort, +I persuaded the proprietor into recognising as his shop. Next, +I indicated in my drawing that on the many streets there were many shops. +And, finally, I made myself into a living interrogation mark, pointing +all the while from the mangy leopard skin to the many shops I had sketched.</p> +<p>But the proprietor failed to follow me. So did his assistant. +The street came in to help—that is, as many as could crowd into +the six-by-eight shop; while those that could not force their way in +held an overflow meeting on the sidewalk. The proprietor and the +rest took turns at talking to me in rapid-fire Spanish, and, from the +expressions on their faces, all concluded that I was remarkably stupid. +Again I went through my programme, pointing on the sketch from the one +shop to the many shops, pointing out that in this particular shop was +one leopard skin, and then questing interrogatively with my pencil among +all the shops. All regarded me in blank silence, until I saw comprehension +suddenly dawn on the face of a small boy.</p> +<p>“Tigres montanya!” he cried.</p> +<p>This appealed to me as mountain tigers, namely, leopards; and in +token that he understood, the boy made signs for me to follow him, which +I obeyed. He led me for a quarter of a mile, and paused before +the doorway of a large building where soldiers slouched on sentry duty +and in and out of which went other soldiers. Motioning for me +to remain, he ran inside.</p> +<p>Fifteen minutes later he was out again, without leopard skins, but +full of information. By means of my card, of my hotel card, of +my watch, and of the boy’s fingers, I learned the following: that +at six o’clock that evening he would arrive at my hotel with ten +leopard skins for my inspection. Further, I learned that the skins +were the property of one Captain Ernesto Becucci. Also, I learned +that the boy’s name was Eliceo.</p> +<p>The boy was prompt. At six o’clock he was at my room. +In his hand was a small roll addressed to me. On opening it I +found it to be manuscript piano music, the <i>Hora Tranquila Valse</i>, +or “Tranquil Hour Waltz,” by Ernesto Becucci. I came +for leopard skins, thought I, and the owner sends me sheet music instead. +But the boy assured me that he would have the skins at the hotel at +nine next morning, and I entrusted to him the following letter of acknowledgment:</p> +<blockquote><p>“DEAR CAPTAIN BECUCCI:</p> +<p>“A thousand thanks for your kind presentation of <i>Hora Tranquila +Valse</i>. Mrs. London will play it for me this evening.</p> +<p>“Sincerely yours,</p> +<p>“Jack London.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Next morning Eliceo was back, but without the skins. Instead, +he gave me a letter, written in Spanish, of which the following is a +free translation:</p> +<blockquote><p>“To my dearest and always appreciated friend, I +submit myself—</p> +<p>“DEAR SIR:</p> +<p>“I sent you last night an offering by the bearer of this note, +and you returned me a letter which I translated.</p> +<p>“Be it known to you, sir, that I am giving this waltz away +in the best society, and therefore to your honoured self. Therefore +it is beholden to you to recognise the attention, I mean by a tangible +return, as this composition was made by myself. You will therefore +send by your humble servant, the bearer, any offering, however minute, +that you may be prompted to make. Send it under cover of an envelope. +The bearer may be trusted.</p> +<p>“I did not indulge in the pleasure of visiting your honourable +self this morning, as I find my body not to be enjoying the normal exercise +of its functions.</p> +<p>“As regards the skins from the mountain, you shall be waited +on by a small boy at seven o’clock at night with ten skins from +which you may select those which most satisfy your aspirations.</p> +<p>“In the hope that you will look upon this in the same light +as myself, I beg to be allowed to remain,</p> +<p>“Your most faithful servant,</p> +<p>“CAPTAIN ERNESTO BECUCCI.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Well, thought I, this Captain Ernesto Becucci has shown himself to +be such an undependable person, that, while I don’t mind rewarding +him for his composition, I fear me if I do I never shall lay eyes on +those leopard skins. So to Eliceo I gave this letter for the Captain:</p> +<blockquote><p>“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BECUCCI:</p> +<p>“Have the boy bring the skins at seven o’clock this evening, +when I shall be glad to look at them. This evening when the boy +brings the skins, I shall be pleased to give him, in an envelope, for +you, a tangible return for your musical composition.</p> +<p>“Please put the price on each skin, and also let me know for +what sum all the skins will sell together.</p> +<p>“Sincerely yours,</p> +<p>“JACK LONDON.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Now, thought I, I have him. No skins, no tangible return; and +evidently he is set on receiving that tangible return.</p> +<p>At seven o’clock Eliceo was back, but without leopard skins. +He handed me this letter:</p> +<blockquote><p>“SEÑOR LONDON:</p> +<p>“I wish to instil in you the belief that I lost to-day, at +half past three in the afternoon, the key to my cubicle. While +distributing rations to the soldiers I dropped it. I see in this +loss the act of God.</p> +<p>“I received a letter from your honourable self, delivered by +the one who bears you this poor response of mine. To-morrow I +will burst open the door to permit me to keep my word with you. +I feel myself eternally shamed not to be able to dominate the evils +that afflict colonial mankind. Please send me the trifle that +you offered me. Send me this proof of your appreciation by the +bearer, who is to be trusted. Also give to him a small sum of +money for himself, and earn the undying gratitude of</p> +<p>“Your most faithful servant,</p> +<p>“CAPTAIN ERNESTO BECUCCI.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Also, inclosed in the foregoing letter was the following original +poem, à propos neither of leopard skins nor tangible returns, +so far as I can make out:</p> +<blockquote><p>EFFUSION</p> +<p>Thou canst not weep;<br /> +Nor ask I for a year<br /> +To rid me of my woes<br /> +Or make my life more dear.</p> +<p>The mystic chains that bound<br /> +Thy all-fond heart to mine,<br /> +Alas! asundered are<br /> +For now and for all time.</p> +<p>In vain you strove to hide,<br /> +From vulgar gaze of man,<br /> +The burning glance of love<br /> +That none but Love can scan.</p> +<p>Go on thy starlit way<br /> +And leave me to my fate;<br /> +Our souls must needs unite—<br /> +But, God! ’twill be too late.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>To all and sundry of which I replied:</p> +<blockquote><p>“MY DEAR CAPTAIN BECUCCI:</p> +<p>“I regret exceedingly to hear that by act of God, at half past +three this afternoon, you lost the key to your cubicle. Please +have the boy bring the skins at seven o’clock to-morrow morning, +at which time, when he brings the skins, I shall be glad to make you +that tangible return for your ‘Tranquil Hour Waltz.’</p> +<p>“Sincerely yours,</p> +<p>“JACK LONDON.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>At seven o’clock came no skins, but the following:</p> +<blockquote><p>“SIR:</p> +<p>“After offering you my most sincere respects, I beg to continue +by telling you that no one, up to the time of writing, has treated me +with such lack of attention. It was a present to <i>gentlemen</i> +who were to retain the piece of music, and who have all, without exception, +made me a present of five dollars. It is beyond my humble capacity +to believe that you, after having offered to send me money in an envelope, +should fail to do so.</p> +<p>“Send me, I pray of you, the money to remunerate the small +boy for his repeated visits to you. Please be discreet and send +it in an envelope by the bearer.</p> +<p>“Last night I came to the hotel with the boy. You were +dining. I waited more than an hour for you and then went to the +theatre. Give the boy some small amount, and send me a like offering +of larger proportions.</p> +<p>“Awaiting incessantly a slight attention on your part,</p> +<p>“CAPTAIN ERNESTO BECUCCI.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And here, like one of George Moore’s realistic studies, ends +this intercourse with Captain Ernesto Becucci. Nothing happened. +Nothing ever came to anything. He got no tangible return, and +I got no leopard skins. The tangible return he might have got, +I presented to Eliceo, who promptly invested it in a pair of trousers +and a ticket to the bull-fight.</p> +<p>(NOTE TO EDITOR.—This is a faithful narration of what actually +happened in Quito, Ecuador.)</p> +<h2>THAT DEAD MEN RISE UP NEVER</h2> +<p>The month in which my seventeenth birthday arrived I signed on before +the mast on the <i>Sophie Sutherland</i>, a three-topmast schooner bound +on a seven-months’ seal-hunting cruise to the coast of Japan. +We sailed from San Francisco, and immediately I found confronting me +a problem of no inconsiderable proportions. There were twelve +men of us in the forecastle, ten of whom were hardened, tarry-thumbed +sailors. Not alone was I a youth and on my first voyage, but I +had for shipmates men who had come through the hard school of the merchant +service of Europe. As boys, they had had to perform their ship’s +duty, and, in addition, by immemorial sea custom, they had had to be +the slaves of the ordinary and able-bodied seamen. When they became +ordinary seamen they were still the slaves of the able-bodied. +Thus, in the forecastle, with the watch below, an able seaman, lying +in his bunk, will order an ordinary seaman to fetch him his shoes or +bring him a drink of water. Now the ordinary seaman may be lying +in <i>his</i> bunk. He is just as tired as the able seaman. +Yet he must get out of his bunk and fetch and carry. If he refuses, +he will be beaten. If, perchance, he is so strong that he can +whip the able seaman, then all the able seamen, or as many as may be +necessary, pitch upon the luckless devil and administer the beating.</p> +<p>My problem now becomes apparent. These hard-bit Scandinavian +sailors had come through a hard school. As boys they had served +their mates, and as able seamen they looked to be served by other boys. +I was a boy—withal with a man’s body. I had never +been to sea before—withal I was a good sailor and knew my business. +It was either a case of holding my own with them or of going under. +I had signed on as an equal, and an equal I must maintain myself, or +else endure seven months of hell at their hands. And it was this +very equality they resented. By what right was I an equal? +I had not earned that high privilege. I had not endured the miseries +they had endured as maltreated boys or bullied ordinaries. Worse +than that, I was a land-lubber making his first voyage. And yet, +by the injustice of fate, on the ship’s articles I was their equal.</p> +<p>My method was deliberate, and simple, and drastic. In the first +place, I resolved to do my work, no matter how hard or dangerous it +might be, so well that no man would be called upon to do it for me. +Further, I put ginger in my muscles. I never malingered when pulling +on a rope, for I knew the eagle eyes of my forecastle mates were squinting +for just such evidences of my inferiority. I made it a point to +be among the first of the watch going on deck, among the last going +below, never leaving a sheet or tackle for some one else to coil over +a pin. I was always eager for the run aloft for the shifting of +topsail sheets and tacks, or for the setting or taking in of topsails; +and in these matters I did more than my share.</p> +<p>Furthermore, I was on a hair-trigger of resentment myself. +I knew better than to accept any abuse or the slightest patronizing. +At the first hint of such, I went off—I exploded. I might +be beaten in the subsequent fight, but I left the impression that I +was a wild-cat and that I would just as willingly fight again. +My intention was to demonstrate that I would tolerate no imposition. +I proved that the man who imposed on me must have a fight on his hands. +And doing my work well, the innate justice of the men, assisted by their +wholesome dislike for a clawing and rending wild-cat ruction, soon led +them to give over their hectoring. After a bit of strife, my attitude +was accepted, and it was my pride that I was taken in as an equal in +spirit as well as in fact. From then on, everything was beautiful, +and the voyage promised to be a happy one.</p> +<p>But there was one other man in the forecastle. Counting the +Scandinavians as ten, and myself as the eleventh, this man was the twelfth +and last. We never knew his name, contenting ourselves with calling +him the “Bricklayer.” He was from Missouri—at +least he so informed us in the one meagre confidence he was guilty of +in the early days of the voyage. Also, at that time, we learned +several other things. He was a bricklayer by trade. He had +never even seen salt water until the week before he joined us, at which +time he had arrived in San Francisco and looked upon San Francisco Bay. +Why he, of all men, at forty years of age, should have felt the prod +to go to sea, was beyond all of us; for it was our unanimous conviction +that no man less fitted for the sea had ever embarked on it. But +to sea he had come. After a week’s stay in a sailors’ +boarding-house, he had been shoved aboard of us as an able seaman.</p> +<p>All hands had to do his work for him. Not only did he know +nothing, but he proved himself unable to learn anything. Try as +they would, they could never teach him to steer. To him the compass +must have been a profound and awful whirligig. He never mastered +its cardinal points, much less the checking and steadying of the ship +on her course. He never did come to know whether ropes should +be coiled from left to right or from right to left. It was mentally +impossible for him to learn the easy muscular trick of throwing his +weight on a rope in pulling and hauling. The simplest knots and +turns were beyond his comprehension, while he was mortally afraid of +going aloft. Bullied by captain and mate, he was one day forced +aloft. He managed to get underneath the crosstrees, and there +he froze to the ratlines. Two sailors had to go after him to help +him down.</p> +<p>All of which was bad enough had there been no worse. But he +was vicious, malignant, dirty, and without common decency. He +was a tall, powerful man, and he fought with everybody. And there +was no fairness in his fighting. His first fight on board, the +first day out, was with me, when he, desiring to cut a plug of chewing +tobacco, took my personal table-knife for the purpose, and whereupon, +I, on a hair-trigger, promptly exploded. After that he fought +with nearly every member of the crew. When his clothing became +too filthy to be bearable by the rest of us, we put it to soak and stood +over him while he washed it. In short, the Bricklayer was one +of those horrible and monstrous things that one must see in order to +be convinced that they exist.</p> +<p>I will only say that he was a beast, and that we treated him like +a beast. It is only by looking back through the years that I realise +how heartless we were to him. He was without sin. He could +not, by the very nature of things, have been anything else than he was. +He had not made himself, and for his making he was not responsible. +Yet we treated him as a free agent and held him personally responsible +for all that he was and that he should not have been. As a result, +our treatment of him was as terrible as he was himself terrible. +Finally we gave him the silent treatment, and for weeks before he died +we neither spoke to him nor did he speak to us. And for weeks +he moved among us, or lay in his bunk in our crowded house, grinning +at us his hatred and malignancy. He was a dying man, and he knew +it, and we knew it. And furthermore, he knew that we wanted him +to die. He cumbered our life with his presence, and ours was a +rough life that made rough men of us. And so he died, in a small +space crowded by twelve men and as much alone as if he had died on some +desolate mountain peak. No kindly word, no last word, was passed +between. He died as he had lived, a beast, and he died hating +us and hated by us.</p> +<p>And now I come to the most startling moment of my life. No +sooner was he dead than he was flung overboard. He died in a night +of wind, drawing his last breath as the men tumbled into their oilskins +to the cry of “All hands!” And he was flung overboard, +several hours later, on a day of wind. Not even a canvas wrapping +graced his mortal remains; nor was he deemed worthy of bars of iron +at his feet. We sewed him up in the blankets in which he died +and laid him on a hatch-cover for’ard of the main-hatch on the +port side. A gunnysack, half full of galley coal, was fastened +to his feet.</p> +<p>It was bitter cold. The weather-side of every rope, spar, and +stay was coated with ice, while all the rigging was a harp, singing +and shouting under the fierce hand of the wind. The schooner, +hove to, lurched and floundered through the sea, rolling her scuppers +under and perpetually flooding the deck with icy salt water. We +of the forecastle stood in sea-boots and oilskins. Our hands were +mittened, but our heads were bared in the presence of the death we did +not respect. Our ears stung and numbed and whitened, and we yearned +for the body to be gone. But the interminable reading of the burial +service went on. The captain had mistaken his place, and while +he read on without purpose we froze our ears and resented this final +hardship thrust upon us by the helpless cadaver. As from the beginning, +so to the end, everything had gone wrong with the Bricklayer. +Finally, the captain’s son, irritated beyond measure, jerked the +book from the palsied fingers of the old man and found the place. +Again the quavering voice of the captain arose. Then came the +cue: “And the body shall be cast into the sea.” We +elevated one end of the hatch-cover, and the Bricklayer plunged outboard +and was gone.</p> +<p>Back into the forecastle we cleaned house, washing out the dead man’s +bunk and removing every vestige of him. By sea law and sea custom, +we should have gathered his effects together and turned them over to +the captain, who, later, would have held an auction in which we should +have bid for the various articles. But no man wanted them, so +we tossed them up on deck and overboard in the wake of the departed +body—the last ill-treatment we could devise to wreak upon the +one we had hated so. Oh, it was raw, believe me; but the life +we lived was raw, and we were as raw as the life.</p> +<p>The Bricklayer’s bunk was better than mine. Less sea +water leaked down through the deck into it, and the light was better +for lying in bed and reading. Partly for this reason I proceeded +to move into his bunk. My other reason was pride. I saw +the sailors were superstitious, and by this act I determined to show +that I was braver than they. I would cap my proved equality by +a deed that would compel their recognition of my superiority. +Oh, the arrogance of youth! But let that pass. The sailors +were appalled by my intention. One and all, they warned me that +in the history of the sea no man had taken a dead man’s bunk and +lived to the end of the voyage. They instanced case after case +in their personal experience. I was obdurate. Then they +begged and pleaded with me, and my pride was tickled in that they showed +they really liked me and were concerned about me. This but served +to confirm me in my madness. I moved in, and, lying in the dead +man’s bunk, all afternoon and evening listened to dire prophecies +of my future. Also were told stories of awful deaths and gruesome +ghosts that secretly shivered the hearts of all of us. Saturated +with this, yet scoffing at it, I rolled over at the end of the second +dog-watch and went to sleep.</p> +<p>At ten minutes to twelve I was called, and at twelve I was dressed +and on deck, relieving the man who had called me. On the sealing +grounds, when hove to, a watch of only a single man is kept through +the night, each man holding the deck for an hour. It was a dark +night, though not a black one. The gale was breaking up, and the +clouds were thinning. There should have been a moon, and, though +invisible, in some way a dim, suffused radiance came from it. +I paced back and forth across the deck amidships. My mind was +filled with the event of the day and with the horrible tales my shipmates +had told, and yet I dare to say, here and now, that I was not afraid. +I was a healthy animal, and furthermore, intellectually, I agreed with +Swinburne that dead men rise up never. The Bricklayer was dead, +and that was the end of it. He would rise up never—at least, +never on the deck of the <i>Sophie Sutherland</i>. Even then he +was in the ocean depths miles to windward of our leeward drift, and +the likelihood was that he was already portioned out in the maws of +many sharks. Still, my mind pondered on the tales of the ghosts +of dead men I had heard, and I speculated on the spirit world. +My conclusion was that if the spirits of the dead still roamed the world +they carried the goodness or the malignancy of the earth-life with them. +Therefore, granting the hypothesis (which I didn’t grant at all), +the ghost of the Bricklayer was bound to be as hateful and malignant +as he in life had been. But there wasn’t any Bricklayer’s +ghost—that I insisted upon.</p> +<p>A few minutes, thinking thus, I paced up and down. Then, glancing +casually for’ard, along the port side, I leaped like a startled +deer and in a blind madness of terror rushed aft along the poop, heading +for the cabin. Gone was all my arrogance of youth and my intellectual +calm. I had seen a ghost. There, in the dim light, where +we had flung the dead man overboard, I had seen a faint and wavering +form. Six-feet in length it was, slender, and of substance so +attenuated that I had distinctly seen through it the tracery of the +fore-rigging.</p> +<p>As for me, I was as panic-stricken as a frightened horse. I, +as I, had ceased to exist. Through me were vibrating the fibre-instincts +of ten thousand generations of superstitious forebears who had been +afraid of the dark and the things of the dark. I was not I. +I was, in truth, those ten thousand forebears. I was the race, +the whole human race, in its superstitious infancy. Not until +part way down the cabin-companionway did my identity return to me. +I checked my flight and clung to the steep ladder, suffocating, trembling, +and dizzy. Never, before nor since, have I had such a shock. +I clung to the ladder and considered. I could not doubt my senses. +That I had seen something there was no discussion. But what was +it? Either a ghost or a joke. There could be nothing else. +If a ghost, the question was: would it appear again? If it did +not, and I aroused the ship’s officers, I would make myself the +laughing stock of all on board. And by the same token, if it were +a joke, my position would be still more ridiculous. If I were +to retain my hard-won place of equality, it would never do to arouse +any one until I ascertained the nature of the thing.</p> +<p>I am a brave man. I dare to say so; for in fear and trembling +I crept up the companion-way and went back to the spot from which I +had first seen the thing. It had vanished. My bravery was +qualified, however. Though I could see nothing, I was afraid to +go for’ard to the spot where I had seen the thing. I resumed +my pacing up and down, and though I cast many an anxious glance toward +the dread spot, nothing manifested itself. As my equanimity returned +to me, I concluded that the whole affair had been a trick of the imagination +and that I had got what I deserved for allowing my mind to dwell on +such matters.</p> +<p>Once more my glances for’ard were casual, and not anxious; +and then, suddenly, I was a madman, rushing wildly aft. I had +seen the thing again, the long, wavering attenuated substance through +which could be seen the fore-rigging. This time I had reached +only the break of the poop when I checked myself. Again I reasoned +over the situation, and it was pride that counselled strongest. +I could not afford to make myself a laughing-stock. This thing, +whatever it was, I must face alone. I must work it out myself. +I looked back to the spot where we had tilted the Bricklayer. +It was vacant. Nothing moved. And for a third time I resumed +my amidships pacing.</p> +<p>In the absence of the thing my fear died away and my intellectual +poise returned. Of course it was not a ghost. Dead men did +not rise up. It was a joke, a cruel joke. My mates of the +forecastle, by some unknown means, were frightening me. Twice +already must they have seen me run aft. My cheeks burned with +shame. In fancy I could hear the smothered chuckling and laughter +even then going on in the forecastle. I began to grow angry. +Jokes were all very well, but this was carrying the thing too far. +I was the youngest on board, only a youth, and they had no right to +play tricks on me of the order that I well knew in the past had made +raving maniacs of men and women. I grew angrier and angrier, and +resolved to show them that I was made of sterner stuff and at the same +time to wreak my resentment upon them. If the thing appeared again, +I made my mind up that I would go up to it—furthermore, that I +would go up to it knife in hand. When within striking distance, +I would strike. If a man, he would get the knife-thrust he deserved. +If a ghost, well, it wouldn’t hurt the ghost any, while I would +have learned that dead men did rise up.</p> +<p>Now I was very angry, and I was quite sure the thing was a trick; +but when the thing appeared a third time, in the same spot, long, attenuated, +and wavering, fear surged up in me and drove most of my anger away. +But I did not run. Nor did I take my eyes from the thing. +Both times before, it had vanished while I was running away, so I had +not seen the manner of its going. I drew my sheath-knife from +my belt and began my advance. Step by step, nearer and nearer, +the effort to control myself grew more severe. The struggle was +between my will, my identity, my very self, on the one hand, and on +the other, the ten thousand ancestors who were twisted into the fibres +of me and whose ghostly voices were whispering of the dark and the fear +of the dark that had been theirs in the time when the world was dark +and full of terror.</p> +<p>I advanced more slowly, and still the thing wavered and flitted with +strange eerie lurches. And then, right before my eyes, it vanished. +I saw it vanish. Neither to the right nor left did it go, nor +backward. Right there, while I gazed upon it, it faded away, ceased +to be. I didn’t die, but I swear, from what I experienced +in those few succeeding moments, that I know full well that men can +die of fright. I stood there, knife in hand, swaying automatically +to the roll of the ship, paralysed with fear. Had the Bricklayer +suddenly seized my throat with corporeal fingers and proceeded to throttle +me, it would have been no more than I expected. Dead men did rise +up, and that would be the most likely thing the malignant Bricklayer +would do.</p> +<p>But he didn’t seize my throat. Nothing happened. +And, since nature abhors a status, I could not remain there in the one +place forever paralysed. I turned and started aft. I did +not run. What was the use? What chance had I against the +malevolent world of ghosts? Flight, with me, was the swiftness +of my legs. The pursuit, with a ghost, was the swiftness of thought. +And there were ghosts. I had seen one.</p> +<p>And so, stumbling slowly aft, I discovered the explanation of the +seeming. I saw the mizzen topmast lurching across a faint radiance +of cloud behind which was the moon. The idea leaped in my brain. +I extended the line between the cloudy radiance and the mizzen-topmast +and found that it must strike somewhere near the fore-rigging on the +port side. Even as I did this, the radiance vanished. The +driving clouds of the breaking gale were alternately thickening and +thinning before the face of the moon, but never exposing the face of +the moon. And when the clouds were at their thinnest, it was a +very dim radiance that the moon was able to make. I watched and +waited. The next time the clouds thinned I looked for’ard, +and there was the shadow of the topmast, long and attenuated, wavering +and lurching on the deck and against the rigging.</p> +<p>This was my first ghost. Once again have I seen a ghost. +It proved to be a Newfoundland dog, and I don’t know which of +us was the more frightened, for I hit that Newfoundland a full right-arm +swing to the jaw. Regarding the Bricklayer’s ghost, I will +say that I never mentioned it to a soul on board. Also, I will +say that in all my life I never went through more torment and mental +suffering than on that lonely night-watch on the <i>Sophie Sutherland</i>.</p> +<p>(TO THE EDITOR.—This is not a fiction. It is a true page +out of my life.)</p> +<h2>A CLASSIC OF THE SEA</h2> +<blockquote><p>Introduction to “<i>Two Years before the Mast</i>.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Once in a hundred years is a book written that lives not alone for +its own century but which becomes a document for the future centuries. +Such a book is Dana’s. When Marryat’s and Cooper’s +sea novels are gone to dust, stimulating and joyful as they have been +to generations of men, still will remain “Two Years Before the +Mast.”</p> +<p>Paradoxical as it may seem, Dana’s book is the classic of the +sea, not because there was anything extraordinary about Dana, but for +the precise contrary reason that he was just an ordinary, normal man, +clear-seeing, hard-headed, controlled, fitted with adequate education +to go about the work. He brought a trained mind to put down with +untroubled vision what he saw of a certain phase of work-a-day life. +There was nothing brilliant nor fly-away about him. He was not +a genius. His heart never rode his head. He was neither +overlorded by sentiment nor hag-ridden by imagination. Otherwise +he might have been guilty of the beautiful exaggerations in Melville’s +“Typee” or the imaginative orgies in the latter’s +“Moby Dick.” It was Dana’s cool poise that saved +him from being spread-eagled and flogged when two of his mates were +so treated; it was his lack of abandon that prevented him from taking +up permanently with the sea, that prevented him from seeing more than +one poetical spot, and more than one romantic spot on all the coast +of Old California. Yet these apparent defects were his strength. +They enabled him magnificently to write, and for all time, the picture +of the sea-life of his time.</p> +<p>Written close to the middle of the last century, such has been the +revolution worked in man’s method of trafficking with the sea, +that the life and conditions described in Dana’s book have passed +utterly away. Gone are the crack clippers, the driving captains, +the hard-bitten but efficient foremast hands. Remain only crawling +cargo tanks, dirty tramps, greyhound liners, and a sombre, sordid type +of sailing ship. The only records broken to-day by sailing vessels +are those for slowness. They are no longer built for speed, nor +are they manned before the mast by as sturdy a sailor stock, nor aft +the mast are they officered by sail-carrying captains and driving mates.</p> +<p>Speed is left to the liners, who run the silk, and tea, and spices. +Admiralty courts, boards of trade, and underwriters frown upon driving +and sail-carrying. No more are the free-and-easy, dare-devil days, +when fortunes were made in fast runs and lucky ventures, not alone for +owners, but for captains as well. Nothing is ventured now. +The risks of swift passages cannot be abided. Freights are calculated +to the last least fraction of per cent. The captains do no speculating, +no bargain-making for the owners. The latter attend to all this, +and by wire and cable rake the ports of the seven seas in quest of cargoes, +and through their agents make all business arrangements.</p> +<p>It has been learned that small crews only, and large carriers only, +can return a decent interest on the investment. The inevitable +corollary is that speed and spirit are at a discount. There is +no discussion of the fact that in the sailing merchant marine the seamen, +as a class, have sadly deteriorated. Men no longer sell farms +to go to sea. But the time of which Dana writes was the heyday +of fortune-making and adventure on the sea—with the full connotation +of hardship and peril always attendant.</p> +<p>It was Dana’s fortune, for the sake of the picture, that the +<i>Pilgrim</i> was an average ship, with an average crew and officers, +and managed with average discipline. Even the <i>hazing</i> that +took place after the California coast was reached, was of the average +sort. The <i>Pilgrim</i> savoured not in any way of a hell-ship. +The captain, while not the sweetest-natured man in the world, was only +an average down-east driver, neither brilliant nor slovenly in his seamanship, +neither cruel nor sentimental in the treatment of his men. While, +on the one hand, there were no extra liberty days, no delicacies added +to the meagre forecastle fare, nor grog or hot coffee on double watches, +on the other hand the crew were not chronically crippled by the continual +play of knuckle-dusters and belaying pins. Once, and once only, +were men flogged or ironed—a very fair average for the year 1834, +for at that time flogging on board merchant vessels was already well +on the decline.</p> +<p>The difference between the sea-life then and now can be no better +epitomised than in Dana’s description of the dress of the sailor +of his day:</p> +<p>“The trousers tight around the hips, and thence hanging long +and loose around the feet, a superabundance of checked shirt, a low-crowned, +well-varnished black hat, worn on the back of the head, with half a +fathom of black ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a peculiar tie +to the black silk neckerchief.”</p> +<p>Though Dana sailed from Boston only three-quarters of a century ago, +much that is at present obsolete was then in full sway. For instance, +the old word <i>larboard</i> was still in use. He was a member +of the <i>larboard</i> watch. The vessel was on the <i>larboard</i> +tack. It was only the other day, because of its similarity in +sound to starboard, that <i>larboard</i> was changed to <i>port</i>. +Try to imagine “All larboard bowlines on deck!” being shouted +down into the forecastle of a present day ship. Yet that was the +call used on the <i>Pilgrim</i> to fetch Dana and the rest of his watch +on deck.</p> +<p>The chronometer, which is merely the least imperfect time-piece man +has devised, makes possible the surest and easiest method by far of +ascertaining longitude. Yet the <i>Pilgrim</i> sailed in a day +when the chronometer was just coming into general use. So little +was it depended upon that the <i>Pilgrim</i> carried only one, and that +one, going wrong at the outset, was never used again. A navigator +of the present would be aghast if asked to voyage for two years, from +Boston, around the Horn to California, and back again, without a chronometer. +In those days such a proceeding was a matter of course, for those were +the days when dead reckoning was indeed something to reckon on, when +running down the latitude was a common way of finding a place, and when +lunar observations were direly necessary. It may be fairly asserted +that very few merchant officers of to-day ever make a lunar observation, +and that a large percentage are unable to do it.</p> +<p>“Sept. 22nd., upon coming on deck at seven bells in the morning +we found the other watch aloft throwing water upon the sails, and looking +astern we saw a small, clipper-built brig with a black hull heading +directly after us. We went to work immediately, and put all the +canvas upon the brig which we could get upon her, rigging out oars for +studding-sail yards; and contined wetting down the sails by buckets +of water whipped up to the mast-head . . . She was armed, and full of +men, and showed no colours.”</p> +<p>The foregoing sounds like a paragraph from “Midshipman Easy” +or the “Water Witch,” rather than a paragraph from the soberest, +faithfullest, and most literal chronicle of the sea ever written. +And yet the chase by a pirate occurred, on board the brig <i>Pilgrim</i>, +on September 22nd, 1834—something like only two generations ago.</p> +<p>Dana was the thorough-going type of man, not overbalanced and erratic, +without quirk or quibble of temperament. He was efficient, but +not brilliant. His was a general all-round efficiency. He +was efficient at the law; he was efficient at college; he was efficient +as a sailor; he was efficient in the matter of pride, when that pride +was no more than the pride of a forecastle hand, at twelve dollars a +month, in his seaman’s task well done, in the smart sailing of +his captain, in the clearness and trimness of his ship.</p> +<p>There is no sailor whose cockles of the heart will not warm to Dana’s +description of the first time he sent down a royal yard. Once +or twice he had seen it done. He got an old hand in the crew to +coach him. And then, the first anchorage at Monterey, being pretty +<i>thick</i> with the second mate, he got him to ask the mate to be +sent up the first time the royal yards were struck. “Fortunately,” +as Dana describes it, “I got through without any word from the +officer; and heard the ‘well done’ of the mate, when the +yard reached the deck, with as much satisfaction as I ever felt at Cambridge +on seeing a ‘bene’ at the foot of a Latin exercise.”</p> +<p>“This was the first time I had taken a weather ear-ring, and +I felt not a little proud to sit astride of the weather yard-arm, past +the ear-ring, and sing out ‘Haul out to leeward!’” +He had been over a year at sea before he essayed this able seaman’s +task, but he did it, and he did it with pride. And with pride, +he went down a four-hundred foot cliff, on a pair of top-gallant studding-sail +halyards bent together, to dislodge several dollars worth of stranded +bullock hides, though all the acclaim he got from his mates was: “What +a d-d fool you were to risk your life for half a dozen hides!”</p> +<p>In brief, it was just this efficiency in pride, as well as work, +that enabled Dana to set down, not merely the photograph detail of life +before the mast and hide-droghing on the coast of California, but of +the untarnished simple psychology and ethics of the forecastle hands +who droghed the hides, stood at the wheel, made and took in sail, tarred +down the rigging, holystoned the decks, turned in all-standing, grumbled +as they cut about the kid, criticised the seamanship of their officers, +and estimated the duration of their exile from the cubic space of the +hide-house.</p> +<p>JACK LONDON<br /> +Glen Ellen, California,<br /> +August 13, 1911.</p> +<h3>A WICKED WOMAN<br /> +(Curtain Raiser)<br /> +BY JACK LONDON</h3> +<p>Scene—California.</p> +<p>Time—Afternoon of a summer day.</p> +<p>CHARACTERS</p> +<p>LORETTA, A sweet, young thing. Frightfully innocent. +About nineteen years old. Slender, delicate, a fragile flower. +Ingenuous.</p> +<p>NED BASHFORD, A jaded young man of the world, who has philosophised +his experiences and who is without faith in the veracity or purity of +women.</p> +<p>BILLY MARSH, A boy from a country town who is just about as innocent +as Loretta. Awkward. Positive. Raw and callow youth.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY, A society woman, good-hearted, and a match-maker.</p> +<p>JACK HEMINGWAY, Her husband.</p> +<p>MAID.</p> +<h4>A WICKED WOMAN</h4> +<p>[Curtain rises on a conventional living room of a country house in +California. It is the Hemingway house at Santa Clara. The +room is remarkable for magnificent stone fireplace at rear centre. +On either side of fireplace are generous, diamond-paned windows. +Wide, curtained doorways to right and left. To left, front, table, +with vase of flowers and chairs. To right, front, grand piano.]</p> +<p>[Curtain discovers LORETTA seated at piano, not playing, her back +to it, facing NED BASHFORD, who is standing.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Petulantly, fanning herself with sheet of music.] +No, I won’t go fishing. It’s too warm. Besides, +the fish won’t bite so early in the afternoon.</p> +<p>NED. Oh, come on. It’s not warm at all. And +anyway, we won’t really fish. I want to tell you something.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Still petulantly.] You are always wanting to +tell me something.</p> +<p>NED. Yes, but only in fun. This is different. This +is serious. Our . . . my happiness depends upon it.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Speaking eagerly, no longer petulant, looking, serious +and delighted, divining a proposal.] Then don’t wait. +Tell me right here.</p> +<p>NED. [Almost threateningly.] Shall I?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Challenging.] Yes.</p> +<p>[He looks around apprehensively as though fearing interruption, clears +his throat, takes resolution, also takes LORETTA’s hand.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA is startled, timid, yet willing to hear, naïvely unable +to conceal her love for him.]</p> +<p>NED. [Speaking softly.] Loretta . . . I, . . . +ever since I met you I have—</p> +<p>[JACK HEMINGWAY appears in the doorway to the left, just entering.]</p> +<p>[NED suddenly drops LORETTA’s hand. He shows exasperation.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA shows disappointment at interruption.]</p> +<p>NED. Confound it</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Shocked.] Ned! Why will you swear so?</p> +<p>NED. [Testily.] That isn’t swearing.</p> +<p>LORETTA. What is it, pray?</p> +<p>NED. Displeasuring.</p> +<p>JACK HEMINGWAY. [Who is crossing over to right.] Squabbling +again?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Indignantly and with dignity.] No, we’re +not.</p> +<p>NED. [Gruffly.] What do you want now?</p> +<p>JACK HEMINGWAY. [Enthusiastically.] Come on fishing.</p> +<p>NED. [Snappily.] No. It’s too warm.</p> +<p>JACK HEMINGWAY. [Resignedly, going out right.] You needn’t +take a fellow’s head off.</p> +<p>LORETTA. I thought you wanted to go fishing.</p> +<p>NED. Not with Jack.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Accusingly, fanning herself vigorously.] And +you told me it wasn’t warm at all.</p> +<p>NED. [Speaking softly.] That isn’t what I wanted +to tell you, Loretta. [He takes her hand.] Dear Loretta—</p> +<p>[Enter abruptly ALICE HEMINGWAY from right.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA sharply jerks her hand away, and looks put out.]</p> +<p>[NED tries not to look awkward.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Goodness! I thought you’d both +gone fishing!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Sweetly.] Is there anything you want, Alice?</p> +<p>NED. [Trying to be courteous.] Anything I can do?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Speaking quickly, and trying to withdraw.] +No, no. I only came to see if the mail had arrived.</p> +<p>LORETTA AND NED</p> +<p>[Speaking together.] No, it hasn’t arrived.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Suddenly moving toward door to right.] I am +going to see.</p> +<p>[NED looks at her reproachfully.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA looks back tantalisingly from doorway and disappears.]</p> +<p>[NED flings himself disgustedly into Morris chair.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Moving over and standing in front of him. +Speaks accusingly.] What have you been saying to her?</p> +<p>NED. [Disgruntled.] Nothing.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Threateningly.] Now listen to me, Ned.</p> +<p>NED. [Earnestly.] On my word, Alice, I’ve been +saying nothing to her.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front.] Then +you ought to have been saying something to her.</p> +<p>NED. [Irritably. Getting chair for her, seating her, +and seating himself again.] Look here, Alice, I know your game. +You invited me down here to make a fool of me.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Nothing of the sort, sir. I asked you +down to meet a sweet and unsullied girl—the sweetest, most innocent +and ingenuous girl in the world.</p> +<p>NED. [Dryly.] That’s what you said in your letter.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. And that’s why you came. Jack +had been trying for a year to get you to come. He did not know +what kind of a letter to write.</p> +<p>NED. If you think I came because of a line in a letter about +a girl I’d never seen—</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Mockingly.] The poor, jaded, world-worn +man, who is no longer interested in women . . . and girls! The +poor, tired pessimist who has lost all faith in the goodness of women—</p> +<p>NED. For which you are responsible.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Incredulously.] I?</p> +<p>NED. You are responsible. Why did you throw me over and +marry Jack?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Do you want to know?</p> +<p>NED. Yes.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Judiciously.] First, because I did +not love you. Second, because you did not love me. [She +smiles at his protesting hand and at the protesting expression on his +face.] And third, because there were just about twenty-seven other +women at that time that you loved, or thought you loved. That +is why I married Jack. And that is why you lost faith in the goodness +of women. You have only yourself to blame.</p> +<p>NED. [Admiringly.] You talk so convincingly. I +almost believe you as I listen to you. And yet I know all the +time that you are like all the rest of your sex—faithless, unveracious, +and . . .</p> +<p>[He glares at her, but does not proceed.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Go on. I’m not afraid.</p> +<p>NED. [With finality.] And immoral.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Oh! You wretch!</p> +<p>NED. [Gloatingly.] That’s right. Get angry. +You may break the furniture if you wish. I don’t mind.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With sudden change of front, softly.] +And how about Loretta?</p> +<p>[NED gasps and remains silent.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. The depths of duplicity that must lurk under +that sweet and innocent exterior . . . according to your philosophy!</p> +<p>NED. [Earnestly.] Loretta is an exception, I confess. +She is all that you said in your letter. She is a little fairy, +an angel. I never dreamed of anything like her. It is remarkable +to find such a woman in this age.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Encouragingly.] She is so naive.</p> +<p>NED. [Taking the bait.] Yes, isn’t she? Her +face and her tongue betray all her secrets.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding her head.] Yes, I have noticed +it.</p> +<p>NED. [Delightedly.] Have you?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. She cannot conceal anything. Do you +know that she loves you?</p> +<p>NED. [Falling into the trap, eagerly.] Do you think so?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and rising.] And to think +I once permitted you to make love to me for three weeks!</p> +<p>[NED rises.]</p> +<p>[MAID enters from left with letters, which she brings to ALICE HEMINGWAY.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Running over letters.] None for you, +Ned. [Selecting two letters for herself.] Tradesmen. +[Handing remainder of letters to MAID.] And three for Loretta. +[Speaking to MAID.] Put them on the table, Josie.</p> +<p>[MAID puts letters on table to left front, and makes exit to left.]</p> +<p>NED. [With shade of jealousy.] Loretta seems to have +quite a correspondence.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [With a sigh.] Yes, as I used to when +I was a girl.</p> +<p>NED. But hers are family letters.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Yes, I did not notice any from Billy.</p> +<p>NED. [Faintly.] Billy?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Nodding.] Of course she has told you +about him?</p> +<p>NED. [Gasping.] She has had lovers . . . already?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. And why not? She is nineteen.</p> +<p>NED. [Haltingly.] This . . . er . . . this Billy . . +. ?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Laughing and putting her hand reassuringly +on his arm.] Now don’t be alarmed, poor, tired philosopher. +She doesn’t love Billy at all.</p> +<p>[LORETTA enters from right.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [To LORETTA, nodding toward table.] +Three letters for you.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Delightedly.] Oh! Thank you.</p> +<p>[LORETTA trips swiftly across to table, looks at letters, sits down, +opens letters, and begins to read.]</p> +<p>NED. [Suspiciously.] But Billy?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. I am afraid he loves her very hard. +That is why she is here. They had to send her away. Billy +was making life miserable for her. They were little children together—playmates. +And Billy has been, well, importunate. And Loretta, poor child, +does not know anything about marriage. That is all.</p> +<p>NED. [Reassured.] Oh, I see.</p> +<p>[ALICE HEMINGWAY starts slowly toward right exit, continuing conversation +and accompanied by NED.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [Calling to LORETTA.] Are you going +fishing, Loretta?</p> +<p>[LORETTA looks up from letter and shakes head.]</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. [To NED.] Then you’re not, I suppose?</p> +<p>NED. No, it’s too warm.</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Then I know the place for you.</p> +<p>NED. Where?</p> +<p>ALICE HEMINGWAY. Right here. [Looks significantly in +direction of LORETTA.] Now is your opportunity to say what you +ought to say.</p> +<p>[ALICE HEMINGWAY laughs teasingly and goes out to right.]</p> +<p>[NED hesitates, starts to follow her, looks at LORETTA, and stops. +He twists his moustache and continues to look at her meditatively.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA is unaware of his presence and goes on reading. Finishes +letter, folds it, replaces in envelope, looks up, and discovers NED.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Startled.] Oh! I thought you were gone.</p> +<p>NED. [Walking across to her.] I thought I’d stay +and finish our conversation.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Willingly, settling herself to listen.] Yes, +you were going to . . . [Drops eyes and ceases talking.]</p> +<p>NED. [Taking her hand, tenderly.] I little dreamed when +I came down here visiting that I was to meet my destiny in—[Abruptly +releases LORETTA’s hand.]</p> +<p>[MAID enters from left with tray.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA glances into tray and discovers that it is empty. +She looks inquiringly at MAID.]</p> +<p>MAID. A gentleman to see you. He hasn’t any card. +He said for me to tell you that it was Billy.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Starting, looking with dismay and appeal to NED.] +Oh! . . . Ned!</p> +<p>NED [Gracefully and courteously, rising to his feet and preparing +to go.] If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll wait till afterward +to tell you what I wanted.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [In dismay.] What shall I do?</p> +<p>NED. [Pausing.] Don’t you want to see him? +[LORETTA shakes her head.] Then don’t.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Slowly.] I can’t do that. We are +old friends. We . . . were children together. [To the MAID.] +Send him in. [To NED, who has started to go out toward right.] +Don’t go, Ned.</p> +<p>[MAID makes exit to left.]</p> +<p>NED. [Hesitating a moment.] I’ll come back.</p> +<p>[NED makes exit to right.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA, left alone on stage, shows perturbation and dismay.]</p> +<p>[BILLY enters from left. Stands in doorway a moment. +His shoes are dusty. He looks overheated. His eyes and face +brighten at sight of LORETTA.]</p> +<p>BILLY. [Stepping forward, ardently.] Loretta!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Not exactly enthusiastic in her reception, going +slowly to meet him.] You never said you were coming.</p> +<p>[BILLY shows that he expects to kiss her, but she merely shakes his +hand.]</p> +<p>BILLY. [Looking down at his very dusty shoes.] I walked +from the station.</p> +<p>LORETTA. If you had let me know, the carriage would have been +sent for you.</p> +<p>BILLY. [With expression of shrewdness.] If I had let +you know, you wouldn’t have let me come.</p> +<p>[BILLY looks around stage cautiously, then tries to kiss her.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Refusing to be kissed. ] Won’t you sit +down?</p> +<p>BILLY. [Coaxingly.] Go on, just one. [LORETTA shakes +head and holds him off.] Why not? We’re engaged.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [With decision. ] We’re not. You +know we’re not. You know I broke it off the day before I +came away. And . . . and . . . you’d better sit down.</p> +<p>[BILLY sits down on edge of chair. LORETTA seats herself by +table. Billy, without rising, jerks his chair forward till they +are facing each other, his knees touching hers. He yearns toward +her. She moves back her chair slightly.]</p> +<p>BILLY. [With supreme confidence.] That’s what I +came to see you for—to get engaged over again.</p> +<p>[BILLY hudges chair forward and tries to take her hand.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA hudges her chair back.]</p> +<p>BILLY. [Drawing out large silver watch and looking at it.] +Now look here, Loretta, I haven’t any time to lose. I’ve +got to leave for that train in ten minutes. And I want you to +set the day.</p> +<p>LORETTA. But we’re not engaged, Billy. So there +can’t be any setting of the day.</p> +<p>BILLY. [With confidence.] But we’re going to be. +[Suddenly breaking out.] Oh, Loretta, if you only knew how I’ve +suffered. That first night I didn’t sleep a wink. +I haven’t slept much ever since. [Hudges chair forward.] +I walk the floor all night. [Solemnly.] Loretta, I don’t +eat enough to keep a canary bird alive. Loretta . . . [Hudges +chair forward.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Hudging her chair back maternally.] Billy, +what you need is a tonic. Have you seen Doctor Haskins?</p> +<p>BILLY. [Looking at watch and evincing signs of haste.] +Loretta, when a girl kisses a man, it means she is going to marry him.</p> +<p>LORETTA. I know it, Billy. But . . . [She glances toward +letters on table.] Captain Kitt doesn’t want me to marry +you. He says . . . [She takes letter and begins to open it.]</p> +<p>BILLY. Never mind what Captain Kitt says. He wants you +to stay and be company for your sister. He doesn’t want +you to marry me because he knows she wants to keep you.</p> +<p>LORETTA. Daisy doesn’t want to keep me. She wants +nothing but my own happiness. She says—[She takes second +letter from table and begins to open it.]</p> +<p>BILLY. Never mind what Daisy says—</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Taking third letter from table and beginning to open +it.] And Martha says—</p> +<p>BILLY. [Angrily.] Darn Martha and the whole boiling of +them!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Reprovingly.] Oh, Billy!</p> +<p>BILLY. [Defensively.] Darn isn’t swearing, and +you know it isn’t.</p> +<p>[There is an awkward pause. Billy has lost the thread of the +conversation and has vacant expression.]</p> +<p>BILLY. [Suddenly recollecting.] Never mind Captain Kitt, +and Daisy, and Martha, and what they want. The question is, what +do you want?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Appealingly.] Oh, Billy, I’m so unhappy.</p> +<p>BILLY. [Ignoring the appeal and pressing home the point.] +The thing is, do you want to marry me? [He looks at his watch.] +Just answer that.</p> +<p>LORETTA. Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss that train?</p> +<p>BILLY. Darn the train!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Reprovingly.] Oh, Billy!</p> +<p>BILLY. [Most irascibly.] Darn isn’t swearing. +[Plaintively.] That’s the way you always put me off. +I didn’t come all the way here for a train. I came for you. +Now just answer me one thing. Do you want to marry me?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Firmly.] No, I don’t want to marry you.</p> +<p>BILLY. [With assurance.] But you’ve got to, just +the same.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [With defiance.] Got to?</p> +<p>BILLY. [With unshaken assurance.] That’s what I +said—got to. And I’ll see that you do.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Blazing with anger.] I am no longer a child. +You can’t bully me, Billy Marsh!</p> +<p>BILLY. [Coolly.] I’m not trying to bully you. +I’m trying to save your reputation.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Faintly.] Reputation?</p> +<p>BILLY. [Nodding.] Yes, reputation. [He pauses for +a moment, then speaks very solemnly.] Loretta, when a woman kisses +a man, she’s got to marry him.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Appalled, faintly.] Got to?</p> +<p>BILLY. [Dogmatically.] It is the custom.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Brokenly.] And when . . . a . . . a woman kisses +a man and doesn’t . . . marry him . . . ?</p> +<p>BILLY. Then there is a scandal. That’s where all +the scandals you see in the papers come from.</p> +<p>[BILLY looks at watch.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA in silent despair.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [In abasement.] You are a good man, Billy. +[Billy shows that he believes it.] And I am a very wicked woman.</p> +<p>BILLY. No, you’re not, Loretta. You just didn’t +know.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [With a gleam of hope.] But you kissed me first.</p> +<p>BILLY. It doesn’t matter. You let me kiss you.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Hope dying down.] But not at first.</p> +<p>BILLY. But you did afterward and that’s what counts. +You let me you in the grape-arbour. You let me—</p> +<p>LORETTA. [With anguish] Don’t! Don’t!</p> +<p>BILLY. [Relentlessly.]—kiss you when you were playing +the piano. You let me kiss you that day of the picnic. And +I can’t remember all the times you let me kiss you good night.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Beginning to weep.] Not more than five.</p> +<p>BILLY. [With conviction.] Eight at least.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Reproachfully, still weeping.] You told me +it was all right.</p> +<p>BILLY. [Emphatically.] So it was all right—until +you said you wouldn’t marry me after all. Then it was a +scandal—only no one knows it yet. If you marry me no one +ever will know it. [Looks at watch.] I’ve got to go. +[Stands up.] Where’s my hat?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Sobbing.] This is awful.</p> +<p>BILLY. [Approvingly.] You bet it’s awful. +And there’s only one way out. [Looks anxiously about for +hat.] What do you say?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Brokenly.] I must think. I’ll write +to you. [Faintly.] The train? Your hat’s in +the hall.</p> +<p>BILLY. [Looks at watch, hastily tries to kiss her, succeeds +only in shaking hand, starts across stage toward left.] All right. +You write to me. Write to-morrow. [Stops for a moment in +doorway and speaks very solemnly.] Remember, Loretta, there must +be no scandal.</p> +<p>[Billy goes out.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA sits in chair quietly weeping. Slowly dries eyes, +rises from chair, and stands, undecided as to what she will do next.]</p> +<p>[NED enters from right, peeping. Discovers that LORETTA is +alone, and comes quietly across stage to her. When NED comes up +to her she begins weeping again and tries to turn her head away. +NED catches both her hands in his and compels her to look at him. +She weeps harder.]</p> +<p>NED. [Putting one arm protectingly around her shoulder and +drawing her toward him.] There, there, little one, don’t +cry.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Turning her face to his shoulder like a tired child, +sobbing.] Oh, Ned, if you only knew how wicked I am.</p> +<p>NED. [Smiling indulgently.] What is the matter, little +one? Has your dearly beloved sister failed to write to you? +[LORETTA shakes head.] Has Hemingway been bullying you? +[LORETTA shakes head.] Then it must have been that caller of yours? +[Long pause, during which LORETTA’s weeping grows more violent.] +Tell me what’s the matter, and we’ll see what I can do. +[He lightly kisses her hair—so lightly that she does not know.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Sobbing.] I can’t. You will despise +me. Oh, Ned, I am so ashamed.</p> +<p>NED. [Laughing incredulously.] Let us forget all about +it. I want to tell you something that may make me very happy. +My fondest hope is that it will make you happy, too. Loretta, +I love you—</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Uttering a sharp cry of delight, then moaning.] +Too late!</p> +<p>NED. [Surprised.] Too late?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Still moaning.] Oh, why did I? [NED somewhat +stiffens.] I was so young. I did not know the world then.</p> +<p>NED. What is it all about anyway?</p> +<p>LORETTA. Oh, I . . . he . . . Billy . . . I am a wicked woman, +Ned. I know you will never speak to me again.</p> +<p>NED. This . . . er . . . this Billy—what has he been +doing?</p> +<p>LORETTA. I . . . he . . . I didn’t know. I was +so young. I could not help it. Oh, I shall go mad, I shall +go mad!</p> +<p>[NED’s encircling arm goes limp. He gently disengages +her and deposits her in big chair.]</p> +<p>[LORETTA buries her face and sobs afresh.]</p> +<p>NED. [Twisting moustache fiercely, regarding her dubiously, +hesitating a moment, then drawing up chair and sitting down.] +I . . . I do not understand.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Wailing.] I am so unhappy!</p> +<p>NED. [Inquisitorially.] Why unhappy?</p> +<p>LORETTA. Because . . . he . . . he wants to marry me.</p> +<p>NED. [His face brightening instantly, leaning forward and laying +a hand soothingly on hers.] That should not make any girl unhappy. +Because you don’t love him is no reason—[Abruptly breaking +off.] Of course you don’t love him? [LORETTA shakes +her head and shoulders vigorously.] What?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Explosively.] No, I don’t love Billy! +I don’t want to love Billy!</p> +<p>NED. [With confidence.] Because you don’t love +him is no reason that you should be unhappy just because he has proposed +to you.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Sobbing.] That’s the trouble. I +wish I did love him. Oh, I wish I were dead.</p> +<p>NED. [Growing complacent.] Now my dear child, you are +worrying yourself over trifles. [His second hand joins the first +in holding her hands.] Women do it every day. Because you +have changed your mind, or did not know you mind, because you have—to +use an unnecessarily harsh word—jilted a man—</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Interrupting, raising her head and looking at him.] +Jilted? Oh Ned, if that were a all!</p> +<p>NED. [Hollow voice.] All!</p> +<p>[NED’s hands slowly retreat from hers. He opens his mouth +as though to speak further, then changes his mind and remains silent.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Protestingly.] But I don’t want to marry +him!</p> +<p>NED. Then I shouldn’t.</p> +<p>LORETTA. But I ought to marry him.</p> +<p>NED. <i>Ought</i> to marry him? [LORETTA nods.] +That is a strong word.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Nodding.] I know it is. [Her lips are +trembling, but she strives for control and manages to speak more calmly.] +I am a wicked woman. A terrible wicked woman. No one knows +how wicked I am . . . except Billy.</p> +<p>NED. [Starting, looking at her queerly.] He . . . Billy +knows? [LORETTA nods. He debates with himself a moment.] +Tell me about it. You must tell me all of it.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Faintly, as though about to weep again.] All +of it?</p> +<p>NED. [Firmly.] Yes, all of it.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Haltingly.] And . . . will . . . you . . . +ever . . . forgive . . . me?</p> +<p>NED. [Drawing a long, breath, desperately.] Yes, I’ll +forgive you. Go ahead.</p> +<p>LORETTA. There was no one to tell me. We were with each +other so much. I did not know anything of the world . . . then. +[Pauses.]</p> +<p>NED. [Impatiently.] Go on.</p> +<p>LORETTA. If I had only known. [Pauses.]</p> +<p>NED. [Biting his lip and clenching his hands.] Yes, yes. +Go on.</p> +<p>LORETTA. We were together almost every evening.</p> +<p>NED. [Savagely.] Billy?</p> +<p>LORETTA. Yes, of course, Billy. We were with each other +so much . . . If I had only known . . . There was no one to tell me +. . . I was so young . . . [Breaks down crying.]</p> +<p>NED. [Leaping to his feet, explosively.] The scoundrel!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Lifting her head.] Billy is not a scoundrel +. . . He . . . he . . . is a good man.</p> +<p>NED. [Sarcastically.] I suppose you’ll be telling +me next that it was all your fault. [LORETTA nods.] What!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Steadily.] It was all my fault. I should +never have let him. I was to blame.</p> +<p>NED. [Paces up and down for a minute, stops in front of her, +and speaks with resignation.] All right. I don’t blame +you in the least, Loretta. And you have been very honest. +It is . . . er . . . commendable. But Billy is right, and you +are wrong. You must get married.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [In dim, far-away voice.] To Billy?</p> +<p>NED. Yes, to Billy. I’ll see to it. Where +does he live? I’ll make him. If he won’t I’ll +. . . I’ll shoot him!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Crying out with alarm.] Oh, Ned, you won’t +do that?</p> +<p>NED. [Sternly.] I shall.</p> +<p>LORETTA. But I don’t want to marry Billy.</p> +<p>NED. [Sternly.] You must. And Billy must. +Do you understand? It is the only thing.</p> +<p>LORETTA. That’s what Billy said.</p> +<p>NED. [Triumphantly.] You see, I am right.</p> +<p>LORETTA. And if . . . if I don’t marry him . . . there +will be . . . scandal?</p> +<p>NED. [Calmly.] Yes, there will be scandal.</p> +<p>LORETTA. That’s what Billy said. Oh, I am so unhappy!</p> +<p>[LORETTA breaks down into violent weeping.]</p> +<p>[NED paces grimly up and down, now and again fiercely twisting his +moustache.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Face buried, sobbing and crying all the time.]</p> +<p>I don’t want to leave Daisy! I don’t want to leave +Daisy! What shall I do? What shall I do? How was I +to know? He didn’t tell me. Nobody else ever kissed +me. [NED stops curiously to listen. As he listens his face +brightens.] I never dreamed a kiss could be so terrible . . . +until . . . until he told me. He only told me this morning.</p> +<p>NED. [Abruptly.] Is that what you are crying about?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Reluctantly.] N-no.</p> +<p>NED. [In hopeless voice, the brightness gone out of his face, +about to begin pacing again.] Then what are you crying about?</p> +<p>LORETTA. Because you said I had to marry Billy. I don’t +want to marry Billy. I don’t want to leave Daisy. +I don’t know what I want. I wish I were dead.</p> +<p>NED. [Nerving himself for another effort.] Now look here, +Loretta, be sensible. What is this about kisses? You haven’t +told me everything after all.</p> +<p>LORETTA. I . . . I don’t want to tell you everything.</p> +<p>NED. [Imperatively.] You must.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Surrendering.] Well, then . . . must I?</p> +<p>NED. You must.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Floundering.] He . . . I . . . we . . . I let +him, and he kissed me.</p> +<p>NED. [Desperately, controlling himself.] Go on.</p> +<p>LORETTA. He says eight, but I can’t think of more than +five times.</p> +<p>NED. Yes, go on.</p> +<p>LORETTA. That’s all.</p> +<p>NED. [With vast incredulity.] All?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Puzzled.] All?</p> +<p>NED. [Awkwardly.] I mean . . . er . . . nothing worse?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Puzzled.] Worse? As though there could +be. Billy said—</p> +<p>NED. [Interrupting.] When?</p> +<p>LORETTA. This afternoon. Just now. Billy said that +my . . . our . . . our . . . our kisses were terrible if we didn’t +get married.</p> +<p>NED. What else did he say?</p> +<p>LORETTA. He said that when a woman permitted a man to kiss +her she always married him. That it was awful if she didn’t. +It was the custom, he said; and I say it is a bad, wicked custom, and +it has broken my heart. I shall never be happy again. I +know I am terrible, but I can’t help it. I must have been +born wicked.</p> +<p>NED. [Absent-mindedly bringing out a cigarette and striking +a match.] Do you mind if I smoke? [Coming to himself again, +and flinging away match and cigarette.] I beg your pardon. +I don’t want to smoke. I didn’t mean that at all. +What I mean is . . . [He bends over LORETTA, catches her hands in his, +then sits on arm of chair, softly puts one arm around her, and is about +to kiss her.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. [With horror, repulsing him.] No! No!</p> +<p>NED. [Surprised.] What’s the matter?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Agitatedly.] Would you make me a wickeder woman +than I am?</p> +<p>NED. A kiss?</p> +<p>LORETTA. There will be another scandal. That would make +two scandals.</p> +<p>NED. To kiss the woman I love . . . a scandal?</p> +<p>LORETTA. Billy loves me, and he said so.</p> +<p>NED. Billy is a joker . . . or else he is as innocent as you.</p> +<p>LORETTA. But you said so yourself.</p> +<p>NED. [Taken aback.] I?</p> +<p>LORETTA. Yes, you said it yourself, with your own lips, not +ten minutes ago. I shall never believe you again.</p> +<p>NED. [Masterfully putting arm around her and drawing her toward +him.] And I am a joker, too, and a very wicked man. Nevertheless, +you must trust me. There will be nothing wrong.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Preparing to yield.] And no . . . scandal?</p> +<p>NED. Scandal fiddlesticks. Loretta, I want you to be +my wife. [He waits anxiously.]</p> +<p>[JACK HEMINGWAY, in fishing costume, appears in doorway to right +and looks on.]</p> +<p>NED. You might say something.</p> +<p>LORETTA. I will . . . if . . .</p> +<p>[ALICE HEMINGWAY appears in doorway to left and looks on.]</p> +<p>NED. [In suspense.] Yes, go on.</p> +<p>LORETTA. If I don’t have to marry Billy.</p> +<p>NED. [Almost shouting.] You can’t marry both of +us!</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Sadly, repulsing him with her hands.] Then, +Ned, I cannot marry you.</p> +<p>NED. [Dumbfounded.] W-what?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Sadly.] Because I can’t marry both of +you.</p> +<p>NED. Bosh and nonsense!</p> +<p>LORETTA. I’d like to marry you, but . . .</p> +<p>NED. There is nothing to prevent you.</p> +<p>LORETTA. [With sad conviction.] Oh, yes, there is. +You said yourself that I had to marry Billy. You said you would +s-s-shoot him if he didn’t.</p> +<p>NED. [Drawing her toward him.] Nevertheless . . .</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Slightly holding him off.] And it isn’t +the custom . . . what . . . Billy said?</p> +<p>NED. No, it isn’t the custom. Now, Loretta, will +you marry me?</p> +<p>LORETTA. [Pouting demurely.] Don’t be angry with +me, Ned. [He gathers her into his arms and kisses her. She +partially frees herself, gasping.] I wish it were the custom, +because now I’d have to marry you, Ned, wouldn’t I?</p> +<p>[NED and LORETTA kiss a second time and profoundly.]</p> +<p>[JACK HEMINGWAY chuckles.]</p> +<p>[NED and LORETTA, startled, but still in each other’s arms, +look around. NED looks sillily at ALICE HEMINGWAY. LORETTA +looks at JACK HEMINGWAY.]</p> +<p>LORETTA. I don’t care.</p> +<p>CURTAIN</p> +<h2>THE BIRTH MARK<br /> +SKETCH BY JACK LONDON written for Robert and Julia Fitzsimmons</h2> +<p>SCENE—One of the club rooms of the West Bay Athletic Club. +Near centre front is a large table covered with newspapers and magazines. +At left a punching-bag apparatus. At right, against wall, a desk, +on which rests a desk-telephone. Door at rear toward left. +On walls are framed pictures of pugilists, conspicuous among which is +one of Robert Fitzsimmons. Appropriate furnishings, etc., such +as foils, clubs, dumb-bells and trophies.</p> +<p>[Enter MAUD SYLVESTER.]</p> +<p>[She is dressed as a man, in evening clothes, preferably a Tuxedo. +In her hand is a card, and under her arm a paper-wrapped parcel. +She peeps about curiously and advances to table. She is timorous +and excited, elated and at the same time frightened. Her eyes +are dancing with excitement.]</p> +<p>MAUD. [Pausing by table.] Not a soul saw me. I +wonder where everybody is. And that big brother of mine said I +could not get in. [She reads back of card.] “Here +is my card, Maudie. If you can use it, go ahead. But you +will never get inside the door. I consider my bet as good as won.” +[Looking up, triumphantly.] You do, do you? Oh, if you could +see your little sister now. Here she is, inside. [Pauses, +and looks about.] So this is the West Bay Athletic Club. +No women allowed. Well, here I am, if I don’t look like +one. [Stretches out one leg and then the other, and looks at them. +Leaving card and parcel on table, she struts around like a man, looks +at pictures of pugilists on walls, reading aloud their names and making +appropriate remarks. But she stops before the portrait of Fitzsimmons +and reads aloud.] “Robert Fitzsimmons, the greatest warrior +of them all.” [Clasps hands, and looking up at portrait +murmurs.] Oh, you dear!</p> +<p>[Continues strutting around, imitating what she considers are a man’s +stride and swagger, returns to table and proceeds to unwrap parcel.] +Well, I’ll go out like a girl, if I did come in like a man. +[Drops wrapping paper on table and holds up a woman’s long automobile +cloak and a motor bonnet. Is suddenly startled by sound of approaching +footsteps and glances in a frightened way toward door.] Mercy! +Here comes somebody now! [Glances about her in alarm, drops cloak +and bonnet on floor close to table, seizes a handful of newspapers, +and runs to large leather chair to right of table, where she seats herself +hurriedly. One paper she holds up before her, hiding her face +as she pretends to read. Unfortunately the paper is upside down. +The other papers lie on her lap.]</p> +<p>[Enter ROBERT FITZSIMMONS.]</p> +<p>[He looks about, advances to table, takes out cigarette case and +is about to select one, when he notices motor cloak and bonnet on floor. +He lays cigarette case on table and picks them up. They strike +him as profoundly curious things to be in a club room. He looks +at MAUD, then sees card on table. He picks it up and reach it +to himself, then looks at her with comprehension. Hidden by her +newspaper, she sees nothing. He looks at card again and reads +and speaks in an aside.]</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. “Maudie. John H. Sylvester.” +That must be Jack Sylvester’s sister Maud. [FITZSIMMONS +shows by his expression that he is going to play a joke. Tossing +cloak and bonnet under the table he places card in his vest pocket, +selects a chair, sits down, and looks at MAUD. He notes paper +is upside down, is hugely tickled, and laughs silently.] Hello! +[Newspaper is agitated by slight tremor. He speaks more loudly.] +Hello! [Newspaper shakes badly. He speaks very loudly.] +Hello!</p> +<p>MAUD. [Peeping at him over top of paper and speaking hesitatingly.] +H-h-hello!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] You are a queer one, reading +a paper upside down.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Lowering newspaper and trying to appear at ease.] +It’s quite a trick, isn’t it? I often practise it. +I’m real clever at it, you know.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Grunts, then adds.] Seems to me I have +seen you before.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Glancing quickly from his face to portrait and back +again.] Yes, and I know you—You are Robert Fitzsimmons.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I thought I knew you.</p> +<p>MAUD. Yes, it was out in San Francisco. My people still +live there. I’m just—ahem—doing New York.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. But I don’t quite remember the name.</p> +<p>MAUD. Jones—Harry Jones.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Hugely delighted, leaping from chair and striding +over to her.] Sure. [Slaps her resoundingly on shoulder.]</p> +<p>[She is nearly crushed by the weight of the blow, and at the same +time shocked. She scrambles to her feet.]</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Glad to see you, Harry. [He wrings her hand, +so that it hurts.] Glad to see you again, Harry. [He continues +wringing her hand and pumping her arm.]</p> +<p>MAUD. [Struggling to withdraw her hand and finally succeeding. +Her voice is rather faint.] Ye-es, er . . . Bob . . . er . . . +glad to see you again. [She looks ruefully at her bruised fingers +and sinks into chair. Then, recollecting her part, she crosses +her legs in a mannish way.]</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Crossing to desk at right, against which he leans, +facing her.] You were a wild young rascal in those San Francisco +days. [Chuckling.] Lord, Lord, how it all comes back to +me.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Boastfully.] I was wild—some.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Grinning.] I should say! Remember +that night I put you to bed?</p> +<p>MAUD. [Forgetting herself, indignantly.] Sir!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You were . . . er . . . drunk.</p> +<p>MAUD. I never was!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Surely you haven’t forgotten that night! +You began with dropping champagne bottles out of the club windows on +the heads of the people on the sidewalk, and you wound up by assaulting +a cabman. And let me tell you I saved you from a good licking +right there, and squared it with the police. Don’t you remember?</p> +<p>MAUD. [Nodding hesitatingly.] Yes, it is beginning to +come back to me. I was a bit tight that night.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Exultantly.] A bit tight! Why, before +I could get you to bed you insisted on telling me the story of your +life.</p> +<p>MAUD. Did I? I don’t remember that.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I should say not. You were past remembering +anything by that time. You had your arms around my neck—</p> +<p>MAUD. [Interrupting.] Oh!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. And you kept repeating over and over, “Bob, +dear Bob.”</p> +<p>MAUD. [Springing to her feet.] Oh! I never did! +[Recollecting herself.] Perhaps I must have. I was a trifle +wild in those days, I admit. But I’m wise now. I’ve +sowed my wild oats and steadied down.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I’m glad to hear that, Harry. You +were tearing off a pretty fast pace in those days. [Pause, in +which MAUD nods.] Still punch the bag?</p> +<p>MAUD. [In quick alarm, glancing at punching bag.] No, +I’ve got out of the hang of it.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Reproachfully.] You haven’t forgotten +that right-and-left, arm, elbow and shoulder movement I taught you?</p> +<p>MAUD. [With hesitation.] N-o-o.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Moving toward bag to left.] Then, come +on.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Rising reluctantly and following.] I’d rather +see you punch the bag. I’d just love to.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I will, afterward. You go to it first.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Eyeing the bag in alarm.] No; you. I’m +out of practice.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Looking at her sharply.] How many drinks +have you had to-night?</p> +<p>MAUD. Not a one. I don’t drink—that is—er—only +occasionally.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Indicating bag.] Then go to it.</p> +<p>MAUD. No; I tell you I am out of practice. I’ve +forgotten it all. You see, I made a discovery.</p> +<p>[Pauses.]</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Yes?</p> +<p>MAUD. I—I—you remember what a light voice I always +had—almost soprano?</p> +<p>[FITZSIMMONS nods.]</p> +<p>MAUD. Well, I discovered it was a perfect falsetto.</p> +<p>[FITZSIMMONS nods.]</p> +<p>MAUD. I’ve been practising it ever since. Experts, +in another room, would swear it was a woman’s voice. So +would you, if you turned your back and I sang.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Who has been laughing incredulously, now becomes +suspicious.] Look here, kid, I think you are an impostor. +You are not Harry Jones at all.</p> +<p>MAUD. I am, too.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I don’t believe it. He was heavier +than you.</p> +<p>MAUD. I had the fever last summer and lost a lot of weight.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You are the Harry Jones that got sousesd and had +to be put to bed?</p> +<p>MAUD. Y-e-s.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. There is one thing I remember very distinctly. +Harry Jones had a birth mark on his knee. [He looks at her legs +searchingly.]</p> +<p>MAUD. [Embarrassed, then resolving to carry it out.] +Yes, right here. [She advances right leg and touches it.]</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Triumphantly.] Wrong. It was the +other knee.</p> +<p>MAUD. I ought to know.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You haven’t any birth mark at all.</p> +<p>MAUD. I have, too.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Suddenly springing to her and attempting to seize +her leg.] Then we’ll prove it. Let me see.</p> +<p>MAUD. [In a panic backs away from him and resists his attempts, +until grinning in an aside to the audience, he gives over. She, +in an aside to audience.] Fancy his wanting to see my birth mark.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Bullying.] Then take a go at the bag. +[She shakes her head.] You’re not Harry Jones.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Approaching punching bag.] I am, too.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Then hit it.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Resolving to attempt it, hits bag several nice blows, +and then is struck on the nose by it.] Oh!</p> +<p>[Recovering herself and rubbing her nose.] I told you I was +out of practice. You punch the bag, Bob.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I will, if you will show me what you can do with +that wonderful soprano voice of yours.</p> +<p>MAUD. I don’t dare. Everybody would think there +was a woman in the club.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Shaking his head.] No, they won’t. +They’ve all gone to the fight. There’s not a soul +in the building.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Alarmed, in a weak voice.] Not—a—soul—in—the +building?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Not a soul. Only you and I.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Starting hurriedly toward door.] Then I must go.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. What’s your hurry? Sing.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Turning back with new resolve.] Let me see you +punch the bag,—er—Bob.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You sing first.</p> +<p>MAUD. No; you punch first.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I don’t believe you are Harry—</p> +<p>MAUD. [Hastily.] All right, I’ll sing. You +sit down over there and turn your back.</p> +<p>[FITZSIMMONS obeys.]</p> +<p>[MAUD walks over to the table toward right. She is about to +sing, when she notices FITZSIMMONS’ cigarette case, picks it up, +and in an aside reads his name on it and speaks.]</p> +<p>MAUD. “Robert Fitzsimmons.” That will prove +to my brother that I have been here.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Hurry up.</p> +<p>[MAUD hastily puts cigarette case in her pocket and begins to sing.]</p> +<p>SONG</p> +<p>[During the song FITZSIMMONS turns his head slowly and looks at her +with growing admiration.]</p> +<p>MAUD. How did you like it?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] Rotten. Anybody could tell +it was a boy’s voice—</p> +<p>MAUD. Oh!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. It is rough and coarse and it cracked on every +high note.</p> +<p>MAUD. Oh! Oh!</p> +<p>[Recollecting herself and shrugging her shoulders.] Oh, very +well. Now let’s see if you can do any better with the bag.</p> +<p>[FITZSIMMONS takes off coat and gives exhibition.]</p> +<p>[MAUD looks on in an ecstasy of admiration.]</p> +<p>MAUD. [As he finishes.] Beautiful! Beautiful!</p> +<p>[FITZSIMMONS puts on coat and goes over and sits down near table.] +Nothing like the bag to limber one up. I feel like a fighting +cock. Harry, let’s go out on a toot, you and I.</p> +<p>MAUD. Wh-a-a-t?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. A toot. You know—one of those rip-snorting +nights you used to make.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Emphatically, as she picks up newspapers from leather +chair, sits down, and places them on her lap.] I’ll do nothing +of the sort. I’ve—I’ve reformed.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You used to joy-ride like the very devil.</p> +<p>MAUD. I know it.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. And you always had a pretty girl or two along.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Boastfully, in mannish, fashion.] Oh, I still +have my fling. Do you know any—well,—er,—nice +girls?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Sure.</p> +<p>MAUD. Put me wise.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Sure. You know Jack Sylvester?</p> +<p>MAUD. [Forgetting herself.] He’s my brother—</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Exploding.] What!</p> +<p>MAUD.—In-law’s first cousin.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Oh!</p> +<p>MAUD. So you see I don’t know him very well. I +only met him once—at the club. We had a drink together.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Then you don’t know his sister?</p> +<p>MAUD. [Starting.] His sister? I—I didn’t +know he had a sister.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Enthusiastically.] She’s a peach. +A queen. A little bit of all right. A—a loo-loo.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Flattered.] She is, is she?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. She’s a scream. You ought to get acquainted +with her.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Slyly.] You know her, then?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You bet.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Aside.] Oh, ho! [To FITZSIMMONS.] +Know her very well?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I’ve taken her out more times than I can +remember. You’ll like her, I’m sure.</p> +<p>MAUD. Thanks. Tell me some more about her.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. She dresses a bit loud. But you won’t +mind that. And whatever you do, don’t take her to eat.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Hiding her chagrin.] Why not?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I never saw such an appetite—</p> +<p>MAUD. Oh!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. It’s fair sickening. She must have +a tapeworm. And she thinks she can sing.</p> +<p>MAUD. Yes?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Rotten. You can do better yourself, and +that’s not saying much. She’s a nice girl, really +she is, but she is the black sheep of the family. Funny, isn’t +it?</p> +<p>MAUD. [Weak voice.] Yes, funny.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Her brother Jack is all right. But he can’t +do anything with her. She’s a—a—</p> +<p>MAUD. [Grimly.] Yes. Go on.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. A holy terror. She ought to be in a reform +school.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Springing to her feet and slamming newspapers in his +face.] Oh! Oh! Oh! You liar! She isn’t +anything of the sort!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Recovering from the onslaught and making believe +he is angry, advancing threateningly on her.] Now I’m going +to put a head on you. You young hoodlum.</p> +<p>MAUD. [All alarm and contrition, backing away from him.] +Don’t! Please don’t! I’m sorry! +I apologise. I—I beg your pardon, Bob. Only I don’t +like to hear girls talked about that way, even—even if it is true. +And you ought to know.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Subsiding and resuming seat.] You’ve +changed a lot, I must say.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Sitting down in leather chair.] I told you I’d +reformed. Let us talk about something else. Why is it girls +like prize-fighters? I should think—ahem—I mean it +seems to me that girls would think prize-fighters horrid.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. They are men.</p> +<p>MAUD. But there is so much crookedness in the game. One +hears about it all the time.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. There are crooked men in every business and profession. +The best fighters are not crooked.</p> +<p>MAUD. I—er—I thought they all faked fights when +there was enough in it.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Not the best ones.</p> +<p>MAUD. Did you—er—ever fake a fight?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Looking at her sharply, then speaking solemnly.] +Yes. Once.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Shocked, speaking sadly.] And I always heard of +you and thought of you as the one clean champion who never faked.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Gently and seriously.] Let me tell you +about it. It was down in Australia. I had just begun to +fight my way up. It was with old Bill Hobart out at Rushcutters +Bay. I threw the fight to him.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Repelled, disgusted.] Oh! I could not have +believed it of you.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Let me tell you about it. Bill was an old +fighter. Not an old man, you know, but he’d been in the +fighting game a long time. He was about thirty-eight and a gamer +man never entered the ring. But he was in hard luck. Younger +fighters were coming up, and he was being crowded out. At that +time it wasn’t often he got a fight and the purses were small. +Besides it was a drought year in Australia. You don’t know +what that means. It means that the rangers are starved. +It means that the sheep are starved and die by the millions. It +means that there is no money and no work, and that the men and women +and kiddies starve.</p> +<p>Bill Hobart had a missus and three kids and at the time of his fight +with me they were all starving. They did not have enough to eat. +Do you understand? They did not have enough to eat. And +Bill did not have enough to eat. He trained on an empty stomach, +which is no way to train you’ll admit. During that drought +year there was little enough money in the ring, but he had failed to +get any fights. He had worked at long-shoring, ditch-digging, +coal-shovelling—anything, to keep the life in the missus and the +kiddies. The trouble was the jobs didn’t hold out. +And there he was, matched to fight with me, behind in his rent, a tough +old chopping-block, but weak from lack of food. If he did not +win the fight, the landlord was going to put them into the street.</p> +<p>MAUD. But why would you want to fight with him in such weak +condition?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I did not know. I did not learn till at +the ringside just before the fight. It was in the dressing rooms, +waiting our turn to go on. Bill came out of his room, ready for +the ring. “Bill,” I said—in fun, you know. +“Bill, I’ve got to do you to-night.” He said +nothing, but he looked at me with the saddest and most pitiful face +I have ever seen. He went back into his dressing room and sat +down.</p> +<p>“Poor Bill!” one of my seconds said. “He’s +been fair starving these last weeks. And I’ve got it straight, +the landlord chucks him out if he loses to-night.”</p> +<p>Then the call came and we went into the ring. Bill was desperate. +He fought like a tiger, a madman. He was fair crazy. He +was fighting for more than I was fighting for. I was a rising +fighter, and I was fighting for the money and the recognition. +But Bill was fighting for life—for the life of his loved ones.</p> +<p>Well, condition told. The strength went out of him, and I was +fresh as a daisy. “What’s the matter, Bill?” +I said to him in a clinch. “You’re weak.” +“I ain’t had a bit to eat this day,” he answered. +That was all.</p> +<p>By the seventh round he was about all in, hanging on and panting +and sobbing for breath in the clinches, and I knew I could put him out +any time. I drew back my right for the short-arm jab that would +do the business. He knew it was coming, and he was powerless to +prevent it.</p> +<p>“For the love of God, Bob,” he said; and—[Pause.]</p> +<p>MAUD. Yes? Yes?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I held back the blow. We were in a clinch.</p> +<p>“For the love of God, Bob,” he said again, “the +misses and the kiddies!”</p> +<p>And right there I saw and knew it all. I saw the hungry children +asleep, and the missus sitting up and waiting for Bill to come home, +waiting to know whether they were to have food to eat or be thrown out +in the street.</p> +<p>“Bill,” I said, in the next clinch, so low only he could +hear. “Bill, remember the La Blanche swing. Give it +to me, hard.”</p> +<p>We broke away, and he was tottering and groggy. He staggered +away and started to whirl the swing. I saw it coming. I +made believe I didn’t and started after him in a rush. Biff! +It caught me on the jaw, and I went down. I was young and strong. +I could eat punishment. I could have got up the first second. +But I lay there and let them count me out. And making believe +I was still dazed, I let them carry me to my corner and work to bring +me to. [Pause.]</p> +<p>Well, I faked that fight.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Springing to him and shaking his hand.] Thank +God! Oh! You are a man! A—a—a hero!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Dryly, feeling in his pocket.] Let’s +have a smoke. [He fails to find cigarette case.]</p> +<p>MAUD. I can’t tell you how glad I am you told me that.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Gruffly.] Forget it. [He looks on +table, and fails to find cigarette case. Looks at her suspiciously, +then crosses to desk at right and reaches for telephone.]</p> +<p>MAUD. [Curiously.] What are you going to do?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Call the police.</p> +<p>MAUD. What for?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. For you.</p> +<p>MAUD. For me?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You are not Harry Jones. And not only are +you an impostor, but you are a thief.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Indignantly.] How dare you?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. You have stolen my cigarette case.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Remembering and taken aback, pulls out cigarette case.] +Here it is.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. Too late. It won’t save you. +This club must be kept respectable. Thieves cannot be tolerated.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Growing alarm.] But you won’t have me arrested?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. I certainly will.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Pleadingly.] Please! Please!</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Obdurately.] I see no reason why I should +not.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Hurriedly, in a panic.] I’ll give you a +reason—a—a good one. I—I—am not Harry +Jones.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Grimly.] A good reason in itself to call +in the police.</p> +<p>MAUD. That isn’t the reason. I’m—a—Oh! +I’m so ashamed.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Sternly.] I should say you ought to be. +[Reaches for telephone receiver.]</p> +<p>MAUD. [In rush of desperation.] Stop! I’m +a—I’m a—a girl. There! [Sinks down in +chair, burying her face in her hands.]</p> +<p>[FITZSIMMONS, hanging up receiver, grunts.]</p> +<p>[MAUD removes hands and looks at him indignantly. As she speaks +her indignation grows.]</p> +<p>MAUD. I only wanted your cigarette case to prove to my brother +that I had been here. I—I’m Maud Sylvester, and you +never took me out once. And I’m not a black sheep. +And I don’t dress loudly, and I haven’t a—a tapeworm.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Grinning and pulling out card from vest pocket.] +I knew you were Miss Sylvester all the time.</p> +<p>MAUD. Oh! You brute! I’ll never speak to +you again.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Gently.] You’ll let me see you safely +out of here.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Relenting.] Ye-e-s. [She rises, crosses +to table, and is about to stoop for motor cloak and bonnet, but he forestall +her, holds cloak and helps her into it.] Thank you. [She +takes off wig, fluffs her own hair becomingly, and puts on bonnet, looking +every inch a pretty young girl, ready for an automobile ride.]</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Who, all the time, watching her transformation, +has been growing bashful, now handing her the cigarette case.] +Here’s the cigarette case. You may k-k-keep it.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Looking at him, hesitates, then takes it.] I thank +you—er—Bob. I shall treasure it all my life. +[He is very embarrassed.] Why, I do believe you’re bashful. +What is the matter?</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. [Stammering.] Why—I—you—You +are a girl—and—a—a—deuced pretty one.</p> +<p>MAUD. [Taking his arm, ready to start for door.] But +you knew it all along.</p> +<p>FITZSIMMONS. But it’s somehow different now when you’ve +got your girl’s clothes on.</p> +<p>MAUD. But you weren’t a bit bashful—or nice, when—you—you—[Blurting +it out.] Were so anxious about birth marks.</p> +<p>[They start to make exit.]</p> +<p>CURTAIN</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUMAN DRIFT***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1669-h.htm or 1669-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/6/1669 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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