Yes, her arms were extended towards him. The fact made the world swim before his eyes. Then he thought of Sorez and––it was well Sorez was not within reach of him. Slowly the barrier widened between Wilson and his Comrade––slowly she faded from sight, even while his eyes strained to hold the last glimpse of her. It seemed as though the big ship were dragging the heart out of him. On it went, slowly, majestically, inevitably, tugging, straining until it was difficult for him to catch his breath. She was taking away not only her own sweet self, but the joy and life from everything about him; the color from the sky, the gold from the sunbeams, the savor from the breezes. To others the sky was blue, the sun warm, and the salt-laden winds came in from over the sea with pungent keenness. To others the waters were sprinkled with joyous colors––the white sails of yachts, the weather-beaten sails of the fishermen, and the gaudy funnels of the liners. But to him it was all gray, gray––a dull, sodden gray.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and heard the gruff voice of the cabby.

“What about my fare?”

“Your fare?”

He had forgotten. He reached in his pocket and drew out a roll of bills, thrusting them into the grimy hands of the man without looking at them.

“Now get out,” he ordered.

Wilson watched the fading hulk until it was lost in the tangle of other shipping. Then he tried to hold the line of black smoke which it left in its wake. When that finally blended with the smoke from other funnels which misted into the under surface of the blue sky, he turned about and stared wearily at the jumble of buildings which marked the city that was left. The few who had come on a like mission dispersed,––sucked into the city channels to their destinations as nickel cash boxes in a department store are flashed to their goals. Wilson found himself almost alone on the pier. There was but one other who, like himself, seemed to find no interest left behind by the steamer. Wilson merely glanced at him, but soon looked back, his interest excited by something or other in the man’s appearance. He was no ordinary looking man––a certain heavy, brooding air relieved of moroseness by twinkling black eyes marked him as a man with a personality. He was short and thick set, with shaggy, iron-gray eyebrows, a smooth-shaven face speckled on one side as by a powder scar. Beneath a thin-lipped mouth a stubborn chin protruded. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, fastened by a black belt. He had 115 the self-sufficient air of the sailor or miner, which is developed by living a great deal apart from other men. It seemed to Wilson that the man was watching him, too, with considerable interest. Every now and then he removed the short clay pipe which he was smoking and covered a half circle with his eyes which invariably included Wilson. Finally he lounged nearer and a few minutes later asked for a match.

Wilson, who was not much given to forming chance acquaintanceships, was at first inclined to be suspicious, and yet it was he who made the next advance, prompted, however, by his eagerness for information.

“Do you know anything about sailing lines to South America?” he asked.

The older man removed his pipe. Wilson thought he looked a bit startled––a bit suspicious at the question.

“What port?” he asked.

It occurred to Wilson that it might be just as well not to divulge his real destination. The only other South American port he could think of was Rio Janeiro, on the east coast.

“How about to Rio?”

“Hell of a hole––Rio,” observed the stranger, with a sad shake of his head. “But fer that matter so’s everywhere. Never found a place what wasn’t. This is,” he affirmed, sweeping his pipe in a semicircle.

“You’re right there,” agreed Wilson, the blue sky above clouding before his eyes.

“I’ve heern there’s goneter be an earthquake here 116 some day. Swaller up the whole darned place. Guess it’s so.”

Wilson studied the man once more; he began to think the fellow was a trifle light-headed. But he decided not; he was probably only one of those with so strong an individuality as to be thought queer. The stranger was staring out to sea again as though, in the trend of fresh speculations, he had lost all interest in the conversation. However, in a minute he withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and, without turning his head, asked,

“Was you reckoning as a passenger or was yer lookin’ for a chance to ship?”

That was a proposition Wilson had not considered. It had no more occurred to him that a man untrained could secure work on a ship than on a railroad.

“Think it is possible for me to get a job?” he asked. “I’ve not had any experience.”

“There’s some things yer don’t need experience fer.”

“I’m willing to do anything––from peeling potatoes to scrubbing decks.”

“There’s better nor that fer a man.”

“I’d like to find it.”

The stranger studied the younger man from the corner of his eyes, pressing down the live coals in his pipe with a calloused forefinger.

“If you was only goin’ to the West Coast, now.”

“What? Where?”

“Say pretty far up––Say to Carlina?”

Wilson could scarcely believe his ears. He steadied himself. This must be more than mere coincidence, he thought. For all he knew, this man might be some agent of the priest. Perhaps the latter had some inkling of what had been found. But if that were so, there was little doubt but what the priest would have taken up the search for it himself. At any rate, Wilson felt well able to care for himself. The parchment was safe in an inside pocket which he had fastened at the top with safety pins. The advantage in having it there was that he could feel it with a slight pressure of his arm. If an opportunity offered to get to Carlina, he would accept it at whatever risk. Wilson answered slowly after the manner of one willing to consider an offer but eager to make a good bargain.

“I don’t know but what Carlina would suit me as well as Rio. It’s more to get away from here than anything.”

“You has the right spirit, m’ boy.”

He paused, then added indifferently,

“Dunno but what I can find a berth fer you. Come if ye wanter, an’ we’ll talk it over.”

Wilson followed. This at least offered possibilities. The stranger lolled the length of the dock shed and out into the street as unconcernedly as though only upon a stroll. They turned into the main thoroughfare among the drays and ship-chandlers’ shops, out into the busy, unconcerned life of the city. The stranger was as unconscious of the confusion about him as though he were the only occupant of the street, 118 crossing in front of the heavy teams with a nonchalance that forced frantic drivers to draw their horses to their haunches, and motormen to bend double over their brakes. Oaths and warnings apparently never reached him. Once Wilson clutched at his broad shoulders to save him from a motor car. He merely spat at the rear wheels.

“Couldn’t git killed if I wanted to,” he grumbled.

They brought up finally before a barroom and entered, passing through to the small iron tables in the rear. The dim gas revealed smudged walls ornamented with dusty English sporting prints––a cock fight, a fist fight, and a coach and four done in colors. A dwarf of a waiter swabbed off the wet disks made by beer glasses.

“Two half and halfs,” ordered the stranger.

When they were brought, he shoved one towards Wilson.

“Drink,” he said. “Might’s well.”

Wilson gulped down the bitter beer. It cleared his head and gave him new life. The stranger ordered another.

“Can’t talk to a man when he’s thirsty,” he observed.

The room grew hazily warm, and Wilson felt himself glowing with new life and fresh courage.

“My name is Stubbs––Jonathan Stubbs,” explained the stranger, as Wilson put down the empty mug. “Follered the sea for forty year. Rotten hard work––rotten bad grub––rotten poor pay. Same on 119 land as on sea, I reckon. No good anywhere. Got a friend who’s a longshoreman and says th’ same ’bout his work. No good anywhere.”

He paused as though waiting for the other to introduce himself.

“My name is Wilson, haven’t done much of anything––and that’s rotten poor fun. But I want to get to South America and I’ll do anything under the sun that will pay my way there.”

“Anything?”

“Yes,” laughed Wilson, “anything, to heaving coal.”

“’Fraid of your neck?” asked Stubbs.

“Try me.”

“Gut any family?”

“No.”

“Ever shipped afore?”

“No.”

Stubbs settled further back in his chair and studied the ceiling.

“Wotcher want to git there for?”

“I have a friend who’s somewhere down there,” he said frankly.

“Man?”

“No.”

“Women,” mused Stubbs, “is strange. Can’t never lay your hand on a woman. Here they are an’ here they ain’t. I had a woman once’t. Yes, I had a woman once’t.”

He relapsed into a long silence and Wilson studied 120 him with friendlier interest than before. Life was written large upon his wrinkled face, but the eyes beneath the heavy brows redeemed many of the bitter lines. It was clear that the man had lived much within himself in spite of his long rubbing against the world. He was a man, Wilson thought, who could warn men off, or welcome them in, at will.

“Maybe,” he resumed, “maybe you’ll come an’ maybe you won’t. Come if you wanter.”

“Where to?”

“To Choco Bay. Can’t promise you nothin’ but a berth to the port,––good pay an’ a damned rough time after you get there. Maybe your throat cut in the end.”

“I’ll go,” said Wilson, instantly.

The gray eyes brightened.

“Now I ain’t promised you nothin’, have I, but to git you to the coast?”

“No.”

“Hain’t said nothin’, have I, ’bout what may happen to you after you git there?”

“Only that I may get my throat cut.”

“What’s the difference if you do? But if you wants to, I’ll gamble my chest agin a chaw that you won’t. Nothin’ ever comes out right.”

“But I don’t want to. I most particularly object to getting my throat cut.”

“Then,” said Stubbs, “maybe you will. Where’s your kit?”

“On my back.”

“You’ll need more than that. Come on.”

Stubbs led the way to a second-hand store and bought for his new-found friend a flannel shirt, trousers like his own, a pair of stout boots, and a cap.

Wilson had nothing left of his ten dollars.

“All the same,” said Stubbs. “Settle when you git your pay.”

He led him then to a pawn shop where he picked out a thirty-two calibre revolver and several boxes of cartridges. Also a thick-bladed claspknife.

“See here, Stubbs,” objected Wilson, “I don’t need those things. I’m not going pirating, am I?”

“Maybe so. Maybe only missionaryin’. But a gun’s a useful ornyment in either case.”

He drew out a heavy silver watch and with his forefinger marking off each hour, computed how much time was left to him.

“What d’ ye say,” he broke out, looking up at Wilson, “what d’ ye say to goin’ fishin’, seein’ as we’ve gut a couple of hours on our hands?”

“Fishing?” gasped Wilson.

“Fishin’,” answered the other, calmly. “I know a feller down by the wharf who’ll take us cheap. Might’s well fish as anything else. Prob’ly won’t git none. Never do. I’ll jus’ drop in below here and git some bait an’ things.”

A dozen blocks or so below, he left Wilson on the sidewalk and vanished into a store whose windows were cluttered with ship’s junk. Anchor-chains, tarpaulin, marlinspikes, ropes, and odd bits of iron were 122 scattered in a confusion of fish nets. Stubbs emerged with a black leather bag so heavy that he was forced to ask Wilson to help him lift it to his shoulders.

“Going to fish with cast-iron worms?” asked Wilson.

“Maybe so. Maybe so.”

He carried the bag lightly once it was in place and forged a path straight ahead with the same indifference to pedestrians he had shown towards teams, apparently deaf to the angry protestations of those who unwisely tried their weight against the heavy bag. Suddenly he turned to the right and clambered down a flight of stairs to a float where a man was bending over a large dory.

“Engaged for to-day?” he demanded of the young fellow who was occupied in bailing out the craft. The man glanced up at Stubbs and then turned his attention to Wilson.

“My friend,” went on Stubbs, “I want to get a little fishin’ ’fore dark. Will you ’commodate me?”

“Get in, then,” growled the owner.

He helped Stubbs lower the bag into the stern, with the question,

“Any more to your party?”

“This is all,” answered Stubbs.

In five minutes Wilson found himself in the prow being rowed out among the very shipping at which a few hours before he had stared with such resentment. What a jackstraw world this had proved itself to him in this last week! It seemed that on the whole he 123 had had very little to do with his own life, that he was being juggled by some unknown hand. And yet he seemed, too, to be moving definitely towards some unknown goal. And this ultimate towards which his life was trending was inseparably bound up with that of the girl. His heart gave a bound as they swung out into the channel. He felt himself to be close on the heels of Jo. It mattered little what lay in between. The incidents of life counted for nothing so long as they helped him to move step by step to her side. He had come to his own again,––come into the knowledge of the strength within him, into the swift current of youth. He realized that it was the privilege of youth to meet life as it came and force it to obey the impulses of the heart. He felt as though the city behind him had laid upon him the oppressive weight of its hand and that now he had shaken it free.

The color came back once more into the world.