From Calcutta Oswald sails without definite destination. The ship's prospective course is unknown. This "tramp" steamer has an oddly assorted cargo. Her officers and crew are a motley mixture of different nationalities. Cabin and steerage passengers hail from many parts of earth.

Oswald learns that there is little prospect of touching at any Indian or English port. The trip will be of uncertain duration, lasting many months, possibly more than a year.

The first day's sail is characteristic. There are fair skies, balmy breezes, smooth seas, followed by clouds, squalls, churning waves, and tempest.

In noisiest turbulence of typhoon wrath this reserved Englishman sways and tosses with the ship's motion, raptly listening to low-pitched, soft-keyed voice rising above the storm.

What is ocean's tumult to this long-range undertone?

Outriding storm fury, the steamer for needed repairs anchors off Indian shore, whence she continues her eccentric course.

Long days, late into the night, are passed by Oswald sitting on and walking the decks. This homeless wanderer on havenless seas recks little of log-book or transit. Unlike sure-winged passage-bird, he knows not his journey's issue. So perverse have been fate's courses that this high-strung, assertive mariner hesitates to direct life's drifting argosy. There are looks of indecision, tense resolve, and helpless perplexity. Eagerly scanning the arched blue, he notes stellar assurance. Hushed as by cradle-song, every harassing emotion subsides.

Some odd, inquisitive conceits grow out of these moods. Gazing from steamer deck into lighted canopy he soliloquizes: "What vigils are those old guards commissioned to keep over this sail? Even if cares of universe now absorb divine solicitude, has there not been, in long ages of the eternal past, ample time to assign watchers over a few afloat on ocean's fickle domain? May not that kindly indulgent Sense, missing no carrion note of clamorous raven-cry, quicken at stress of higher life-forms pulsing with infinite longings of a human soul?"

This peculiar personality seems to reach convictions by more direct processes than others. Meandering courses of intricate reasonings are not to his liking—that divinely intuitive, far-seeing, inner-focalized ray shoots straight as plummet and far as God.

Oswald observes many interesting occurrences aboard the steamer. With perceptive craft he scans faces and notes special traits of fellow-passengers. Neither back nor profile view long can dissemble. By some sorting sense he segregates those few whom his judgment commends to more than casual notice. These are so watched as not to be aware.

These entries occur in his diary:

"We have been out many weeks. One clear-cut, expressive face rivets my view. This stranger appears to be about my age. He is tall, straight, and well-proportioned. I find nothing to correct. Called upon for a manly model to be produced instanter, I unhesitatingly would point at this interesting unknown. There is something in facial lights and shades like and unlike indistinct pictures whose outlines are familiar.

"This enigma is utterly unconscious of such close observation. Though within ten feet, he has not noticed me reclining in a steamer-chair on deck. The stranger sits down on a bench along the outer railing. Soon a middle-aged man joins him, and the two engage in conversation. Their talk is plainly audible. They make pleasant comments, evincing much general information and discriminating intelligence.

"The older man is in poor health, but is hectically cheerful. There is that pathetically wearied look of one engaged in unequal contest with the insinuating, elusive, relentless microbe.

"Hopefully seeking to loosen the slowly contracting hold of this persistent 'strangler,' the sick man has traveled in strange lands and over many waters.

"The other has seen much of interest, and feels hopeful aspirations of young manhood. Many clear-cut, positive views are expressed in courteous, deferential manner, but in no uncertain or ambiguous phrase.

"Over the invalid's face pass pleased, softened shades at some uniquely stated, positive opinions. Such are characteristic. Maturing thought produces milder tints, but truer perspective.

"My sympathies go out to this sick passenger. I long to speak and act kindly. Forgetting personal stress, I am touched at thought of fellow-helplessness. Yet there must be no sentimental indiscretions. To converse with either would invite questioning. Direct answers might be unsafe. Evasive replies would excite suspicion.

"I now little fear any personal results of fate's perversities. From hunted sense of unmerited outlawry I have passed to that of 'ermine' function. Aware that my discreet silences and acts may conserve the ends of justice, I will do nothing in contempt of such high ministry.

"In times of more than wonted assurance I would not accept complete vindication. There must be exact justice meted for an outraged law. Father can await his boy's final clearance from guilty suspicions in patient abeyance to public weal. Mother will approve—her high sense of duty must—so unselfish were her plans—yes, it will be all right with Mother!"

Strangely affected, Oswald looks upward, intensely curious at lowering clouds obscuring the sky. Then follows a sense of unutterable loneliness and bewilderment. Soon a softened radiance steals through the storm blackness. There is suggestion of mild reproof in that image reflection. With reverent, submissive mien Oswald quits the deck.

The diary thus continues:

"Weeks are spent at sea without stop. Only at long intervals does the sick man leave his room. Each appearance shows greater weakness, but no lack of cheerful emotion. The intellectual sense seems to quicken, as if through transparent fleshly gauze that expectant soul lay open to 'prick of light.' There cannot be much longer prolonging of the unequal contest. To sympathetic interest he is so considerately thankful that it is doubtful who is the comforter. Still 'raptured with the world,' he surveys life's receding shores, as if booked for its more luminous, harmonious antitype.

"The younger traveler is all attention, anticipating every want. His kindnesses, delicately unobtrusive, yet frank and hearty, leave no reactive friction.

"I am charmed with such refined tact. Discreet scruples would be set aside but for sure conviction that no want of the invalid is unobserved or slighted.

"One day neither passenger appears on deck. This excites no comment. For over a week I catch only brief views of the younger man. It is then casually remarked:

"'The consumptive is dead.'

"I learn where the body lies, and that on the following day there is to be a burial at sea. I am admitted to the room where stretches mortal remnant of once complex, interwoven humanity.

"Odd fancies flit across my visual camera. Does that enfranchised soul look down from far observatory height at wave-rocked ship like mature manhood on baby rock-a-by? Fanned by soothing breezes of emerald-hued sea, does this glad convalescent meander at will along either tree-fringed shore, with happy child-impulsiveness gathering bouquets of that foliage which is for the 'healing of the nations'?

"Little need for further globe-trotting in case of this once observing traveler, who now—

"To-day occurs the brief ocean obsequies. These are unimportant. It signifies little when or where or how this ceremony is observed. By that mysterious, anciently affirmed gravity the real wanderer has found genial habitation. It matters not through what varying molds passes the disintegrating and reincarnating dust. Essential identity lasts always. Ego consciousness is sure.

"This eccentric 'tramp' steamer passes through many experiences. Being propelled by both wind and steam, she often veers with capricious 'trades,' making peculiar tacks, through some odd adjustment of time, air, and coal. Points not marked upon more pretentious charts receive and bill barter products. The vessel often drops anchor far from land, in channels having neither wharf nor breakwater.

"Queer methods of transfer from ship and shore amuse me. Seeing horses and cattle swimming to and from the vessel, their noses projecting over the sides of rowboats, is interesting. Even trained circus animals are subject to this moist ordeal. By crude tackle and steam-turned windlass, suspended in midair, the poor beasts find ship asylum a most welcome port of entry. One passenger is both amusing and annoying. This odd-geared Teuton hails from Hamburg. Like most stuttering unfortunates, he is a chronic talker. He stutters garrulously in several tongues. There are serious impediments in his pumping gestures. His tongue, hands, and feet, like stringed orchestra, seem trying to arrive at an amicable understanding, but never find the right chord.

"My reserve piques him. Professional solicitude is aroused. This German Æsculapian expert is anxious for a diagnosis. Perhaps this still Englishman requires a prescription.

"For days I am amused and bored by the German's antics. Late at night, after an unusually hot day, the vessel drops anchor. A circus aggregation is taken aboard. After a two-hours' stop the ship moves on.

"All berths and available sleeping-places are occupied. The clown, trapeze performers, bareback riders, and various acrobatic artists are compelled to sleep on deck. This is but little inconvenience in such warm weather. They are stretched and curled in different shapes on benches along the outer railings.

"It is about two o'clock in the morning, and a storm is coming. Soon the waves dash and the rain pours down.

"I see a small bundle on the deck. It obstructs the approaches to the 'scupper' in front of my cabin door. About to step out and clear this watercourse, I see that 'sorrel-top,' corpulent, garrulous German doctor gently unwind the soaked package and tenderly gaze at an upturned childish face. Apparently not approving of this unorthodox baptismal procedure, the boy is borne away. Curled up in the German's warm berth, this little eight-year-old bareback rider, wearied with the night's performance, sleeps until the next evening, unconscious of what has happened. Our fussy old 'granny' sits out on deck, rolling and pitching with the boat's motion, wondering what ails that chap who never talks to anybody.

"From now on I believe in human transfiguration. Coarse red hair is silky auburn; fat face is luminous with refined, expressive lights; stuttering voice is musical as mother's lullaby; and two gray eyes shine like optics of those high sentinels who, keeping ceaseless childhood watch, 'do ever behold the face of our Father.'

"Such long voyage gives time for much reflection. Many old, indistinct recollections are photographed anew. Seen through readjusted visual lens, these create strange emotions. Things witnessed and heard in childhood now are understood more clearly. Vague impressions from books are brought out in more definite relief. My dreams take on changed trend from waking thoughts and emotional moods. Though fanciful tinting is somber-hued, I have growing assurance that all tends to ultimate good.

"I dream of Promethean myth. Chained god writhes on Tarpeian rock, Jove's black eagle tearing at the quick flesh, senseless of the cruel feast. Poet's conceit is not too extravagant or remote. He who in any age filches from time-lock combination light for his kind, must have his Caucasus, whereon, blind scavangers of fate, batten harpy gorge, while not a kindly drop softens Olmypus' cold, drear scowl. No prayer moves those tense lips, but Caucasus groans with the voiceless petition, and Olympus' huge molars chatter with the prophetic beseeching. No uttered petition from bound victim, but unutterable longings of passionate, helpless hearts and blood lift 'void hands' of imperious need. Earth and sea abjure allegiance to blind force, affirming endless fealty to human weal."

Numberless odd ethical impressions grow out of Oswald's peculiar experiences and inner consciousness. Former intense aspiring confidence in personal destiny no longer veils visions nor drowns voices then waiting their appropriate sense.

Uniquely worded sentiments, embodied in his father's sermons and parish talks, come to mind. Most of these are approved, but some seem strangely grotesque. To Oswald's tense perception the general tenor is along severely orthodox lines, but as to occult verities the style appears flippantly superficial. Many comments upon "rewards of virtue" and "refined craft in uprightness" seem gayly ironical. Such jar upon Oswald's strained sense.

Still that larger, if not better, view makes him less exacting. He is more tolerant of honest, dogmatic assertion, believing it to result from environment. Early precept and conviction are elements transmuted by white heat of life's crucible.

Reverend Percy Langdon occupies a conspicuous place in all his son's plans, contingent on clearance from that horrible menacing shadow brooding over the stricken home. As to the idolized mother, it is different. She is left out.

One day the vessel anchors in a European port. Oswald hears the distinguished-appearing stranger talking about quitting the steamer for a brief stay. Soon will follow a trip to an English home. There is boyish enthusiasm at the prospect of a visit with loved ones after absence of years.

Oswald's straining sense hears no definite clew to the disembarking traveler's home port. Indistinct mention of some familiar English towns and scenery makes Oswald very curious, but he must not be inquisitive. There is renewal of that fathomless homesickness, deep resolve, and high assurance.

After partial unloading of cargo, taking on of other commodities, and the booking of a few new passengers, the ship weighs anchor. Long cruising in continental waters, stopping at numerous unimportant points, making little steerage exchanges, she anticipates extended voyage, and heading for the Atlantic, steams for New York.

Now the vessel veers little from direct courses. Late one cloudy afternoon she rounds Sandy Hook, and after a day's quarantine, finds a dock.

With strong sense of relief, Oswald quits the ship. He is taken by hack to a well-appointed hotel near junction of Thirty-third Street and Fifth Avenue.