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 the collection plate till Kingdom Come, while Miss Todd's G's grew squeakier and squeakier and the minister served up the réchauffé sermons of his youth.

He left his anchor seat to lean over the iron railing, gazing into the liquid mountains that flung themselves up against the curving bow. Three miles deep! He tried to think his way down to the bottom. From Hale's Turning to Bridgetown was nine miles—a third of the distance would be as far as the shanty where the blind Indian made baskets out of sweet grass and the gipsies camped in summer. Down, down—he could think down as far as the distance from Aunt Verona's to the schoolhouse—down, down—to the church and Miss Todd's and up the hill? No, his mind wouldn't sink any farther than Gritty's gate, where a demure little girl was saying, "I'm sorry about your auntie, Paul."

The turquoise strip had expanded. The water was changing from steel grey to steel blue. And the ship drove on, while one's thoughts glided and circled like the gulls, without getting tired or lost. On and on unflaggingly towards the blue horizon. The Clytemnestra was abandoning the autumnal rigours of the north for the south's warm promise, bearing one towards knowledge and achievement, like the kindly white bear in the tale called East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

A resounding bell made him jump. Good Lord! Quarter to four. That uproar in the forecastle was Fritz calling the first mate's watch. The old man would be looking for his tea, and might peek into the pantry and discover the bottle of limejuice swiped from the !

He descended the iron ladder, running the length of the main deck till he came to the mainsail-sheet stretched across his route. When it was slack, he balanced on it, for the fun of being jerked into the air as the bellying sail snapped it taut. A black kitten was playing