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 the sea; but there one could at least take a dead reckoning of one's progress, and plan some course for the future.

By way of Berlin and Hamburg, the famous old Hamburg—but not at all conspicuously stocked with Bechstein pianos—Paul journeyed to Holland and England. Dwindling funds restricted his movements during the following weeks, as well as preparation for nautical examinations. When the certificate of Master Mariner was handed to him he had little more than enough money for his fare to Liverpool, where he was to join a cargo ship bound for Bombay. A stroke of fortune had brought him face to face in Fenchurch Street with the former apprentice he had known in Hong Kong. This young man was now second officer of a smart passenger liner and had found Paul a berth as third officer in a cargo ship belonging to the same company.

Although Paul cherished a retrospective fondness for his chum tinged with a new goodwill for the friendly assistance, he was at a loss to understand what had brought them, in the beginning, so closely together, and was relieved when the time came for parting. For other reasons, however, the parting left him forlorn.

"You'll be all right now, old man," his friend said in farewell. "You've a good berth, and the company'll do you well if you stick. Good luck and bong voyage and all that sort of thing!"

Paul accepted these good wishes in the spirit in which he had accepted his berth: gratefully, but without elation. For just as he had outgrown his boyish attachment to the debonair apprentice—he recalled now that he had, with a trace of femininity, secretly adored the apprentice's uniform: shades of Gritty and Lottchen!—so, he felt he had outgrown his berth. It seemed absurd to indulge