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 juvenility. They would have all the words they needed—logic, that grown-up monopoly!—whereas, he, well, somehow there were no words to describe his misery. There was an implacable ego within him which protested, which saw the injustice of their attitude, which refused to be gulled by their phrases, which could cry out, but which couldn't coherently state itself. It could put a sling into his hands wherewith he might slay a legion of Philistines, but it couldn't devise an articulate battle-cry. So far his rebelliousness had only beat against the wall without forcing a breach.

He walked past the telegraph office, past the smutty-looking post office, past the markets, on and on blindly toward the harbour. He liked the acrid, tarry smells of the warehouses and ship chandlers' stores. He envied the stevedores who were lounging about, chewing tobacco and drinking out of tin cans, envied them for having outlived the nightmare of school. They could whistle as they trundled heavy bales over the cobble-stones.

Paul noticed a big, bronzed, bearded man who looked ill at ease in a tweed suit, new boots and a hat too small for him. This man acknowledged the greeting of a lounging stevedore and his words struck a sudden spark against the flint of the boy's heart.

"Ay, I expected to clear to-day," he said, "and I may yet, if I can complete my crew. I've put my steward in the forecastle. He'd been at me the last two trips to go before the mast. But that leaves one watch still a man short, and no steward. Too long a voyage to start out short-handed."

The lounging stevedore turned over his wad of tobacco and spat. "Astraly's a long ways off," he commented. "Nobody's anxious to go so far from home, not in a wind-jammer. They're all for steam these days. You'll soon be a back number, captain."

Paul heard no more. His faculties were merged in a