FLOOD TIDE 
 
 DAN I EJL CHASE

 
 FLOOD TIDE
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO I 
 DALLAS ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO.. LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO
 
 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 BY 
 
 DANIEL CHASE 
 
 FRONTISPIECE BT 
 
 W. B. KING 
 
 got k 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1918 
 
 AllRighttRetened
 
 , 1918 
 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and Electro typed. Published, March, 1918
 
 TO 
 FRED PARKER EMERY 
 
 OF 
 DARTMOUTH COLLEGE 
 
 2134G82
 
 BOOK THE FIRST
 
 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 CHAPTER THE FIRST 
 
 ONE character in literature has always commanded my 
 sympathy. I feel that he has been gravely misjudged, 
 criticized without cause, mocked without reason. I refer 
 to Alnaschar, Fifth Brother of the Barber of Bagdad. 
 
 I first heard of Alnaschar from old Henry Rideout. I 
 was four years old at the time, convalescent from typhoid. 
 Henry came every day to amuse me while my father was 
 away at the store. He spun me yarns of sea adventure, 
 tales of China voyages, drawling sagas of runs ashore in 
 distant ports. Finally he exhausted his store of personal 
 experience and fell back on his reading, giving me queer 
 and distorted versions of many things, from Shakespeare 
 to yellow backed novels. And at last he came to the 
 Arabian Nights and the Barber's tale of his brother. 
 
 "He was a middling queer cuss," said Henry, wrinkling 
 his brow in an effort of memory. "And as near as I can 
 mind it, this is the yarn. Seems that one day when trade 
 was dull the barber got to bragging about his family in 
 general and his brothers in particular he had a sight 
 of them, some bad and the rest worse. What happened to 
 the rest of them I disremember, but this fifth brother of 
 his was the prize one of the lot. After the barber's old 
 man died " 
 
 "How did he die?" I asked, unwilling to miss any of the 
 gory details. 
 
 "Kicked by a camel, I reckon," said Henry with ready
 
 4 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 invention. "But be that as it may, he passed on and the 
 barber and his brothers divvied the plunder betwixt them. 
 And with his share this Alnaschar laid in a stock of cheap 
 glassware and crockery and such. Then he piled his junk 
 in a basket that he'd stole somewhere and sat down in the 
 square to wait for trade, instead of going out and drum- 
 ming it up. Shows the kind of worthless feller he was. 
 And whilst he was waiting for some poor innocent to come 
 along and be fleeced, he starts to figure out how he's going 
 to come out on his venture. 
 
 " 'This here glass,' says he, 'stood me a hundred 
 drachmas. At a reasonable profit I'll get two hundred 
 drachmas for it and buy some more truck. Then,' he says, 
 'I'll pass that off and have four hundred drachmas. A 
 smart chap like me won't be any time at all in turning 
 that over into four thousand. And before long, stands to 
 reason that I'll have twelve thousand. Then maybe I'll 
 branch out into the brass jewelry and glass cGamond 
 trade. I'll have a trotter and a side-bar buggy and a 
 house on High Street with a slate roof and a stone dog in 
 the front yard, all very handsome. And pretty soon I'll 
 have a hundred thousand drachmas. Easily,' he says. 
 'And that'll be enough,' says he. 'I'll lend it out on mort- 
 gages at a stiffish rate and retire.' 
 
 "And then he shakes out all sail and really starts to 
 imagine things. 'I'll shine up to the mayor's daughter,' 
 he plans. 'Maybe I'll even stand for deacon at the Ortho- 
 dox Church and subscribe to foreign missions not very 
 heavy, but just enough to get the name of being pious and 
 liberal. And if the mayor's daughter's got any sense at 
 all, she'll be tickled to death to have me. But after we're 
 spliced I'll show her who's skipper of the packet. I won't 
 * look at her. No, sir. I'll kick and carry on and howl and 
 raise Old Ned no matter what she does. Nothing is going 
 to please me the least mite. She'll cook me a bang-up 
 dinner, chicken and everything, but I'll stay out on the 
 front porch and won't come in. She'll send the butler out,
 
 FLOOD TIDE 5 
 
 but I'll ship him back a'kiting. Then she'll dish up a tray 
 real enticing and tote it out herself. I won't look at it. 
 She'll beg me to eat. I'm danged if I will. She'll get down 
 on her knees. And with that I'll give her a black look and 
 raise my boot and kick that tray 
 
 Here Henry paused for effect and filled his pipe with 
 maddening deliberation. 
 
 "And what then?" I piped eagerly. 
 
 "Why, just what a body might expect," said Henry. 
 "He kicked out and busted his basket fuU of truck all to 
 smash. And everybody in town laughed at him and agreed 
 that it served him right." 
 
 I was disappointed. 
 
 "And he didn't sell his glass?" I asked. 
 
 "He did not. Fact is, he got fined for littering up the 
 road." 
 
 "Nor marry the mayor's daughter?" 
 
 "There wasn't any mayor's daughter," said Henry, re- 
 fusing me the slightest ray of hope. "He just imagined 
 that." 
 
 "Oh!" Somehow or other I saw nothing amusing in 
 Alnaschar's downfall. "But what did he do then?" 
 
 "I don't remember, exactly," admitted Henry. "Most 
 likely he went down to the coast and shipped out on a 
 whaler. Most good-for-nothing chaps seems to end up 
 that way." 
 
 In common with the rest of the elder generation of 
 Whitehaven sailors, Henry considered all whalers scum 
 of the earth. 
 
 After he had clumped away I meditated upon the case 
 of Alnaschar. His treatment of the mythical mayor's 
 daughter I admitted was scarcely the correct thing, but 
 the rest of it, all his plans for wealth and position, that 
 appealed to me immensely. I saw nothing wrong in that. 
 I was sorry for Alnaschar, not because he had suffered 
 financial ruin, but because he had imagined something and 
 been disappointed.
 
 6 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 And, despite the passage of years, I am still sorry for 
 
 him. 
 
 Perhaps a fellow feeling influences me, for my story is 
 that of an elder Alnaschar. I have been a dreamer, a suc- 
 cessful dreamer in many ways, working in even humbler 
 stuff than the "brass jewelry and glass diamond trade." 
 I have built great things for the pleasure of building, sac- 
 rificed even greater things for my visions, tired of it all, 
 and at last awakened to find the pavement of the market 
 place glittering with the strewn fragments of my fortune. 
 Yet I am not a failure. I have both succeeded and failed 
 in a manner which puzzled me immensely. . . . 
 
 And for all this, for my failure and success, there is but 
 one reason. 
 
 I am a dreamer. 
 
 Yet I dislike the term "dreamer." To my mind the 
 dreamer is pale, with long fair hair, given to midnight 
 maunderings and helpless abstraction from the affairs of 
 the world. Through this book I have said much of 
 dreams, but I have used the word for lack of a better. I 
 have been no dreamer, but a futurist; futurists, and not 
 dreamers, build bridges of moonbeams to distant goals. 
 The dreamer dreams and accomplishes nothing ; the futur- 
 ist, staring after to-morrow and trampling to-day under 
 foot, builds where the dreamer is content to imagine. 
 
 Dreams are wholly disappointing, while even in abortive 
 futurism there is a certain satisfaction. I have found it 
 so ; I have even found satisfaction in looking back, through 
 this book, on the time when yesterday was to-morrow. I 
 have seen myself a child again, with dragons lurking 
 among the tall, rank weeds of the neglected garden and 
 ships vanishing beyond the Point on purple seas of ro- 
 mance; a boy, living in the borderland between childish 
 dreams and the practical life about me ; a youth in college, 
 oppressed, like all youth, with a new-born sense of the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 7 
 
 wasted effort and unrelated endeavor of life and planning 
 to do away with it forever; a man and yet a child in 
 many ways dreaming over business and persuading my- 
 self that business and not dreams was the attraction. I 
 have seen myself during the last five years pursuing an 
 illusory vision of happiness and at last coming home from 
 the dark sea. Even now, in the autumn of life, I find that 
 the falling leaves reveal far blue vistas, glimpses of un- 
 guessed country, unknown fields ... I am still a 
 futurist. . . . 
 
 And now I start over again, only a little wiser than be- 
 fore. We futurists die many times and are reborn as 
 often. My life work, the work of my old life, is ended. 
 As a child I dreamed of a world without competition. I 
 then intended to eliminate entirely the waste and injustice 
 of competitive business ; I have succeeded in bringing the 
 ultimate elimination of competition one-tenth of a second 
 nearer in the march of eternity. With that I am content. 
 How many of us accomplish even that much of our child- 
 ish visions? . . . 
 
 We are all children, playing on the broad beach whose 
 distances are veiled in mystery; playing, building, living 
 our cloud-passages of joy and sorrow between the great 
 sea whence we came and the dark forest into which we 
 depart at the day's end. We work in sand, in the unstable 
 sand worn from the foundations of the world by the slow 
 marching years. We scratch the ground plans of im- 
 mense structures ; palaces with driftwood turrets, seaweed 
 gardens and stately walks edged with shining pebbles; 
 smooth-patted mounds, honeycombed with tunnels and 
 crowned with tufts of beach grass and dune flowers ; vast 
 bridges spanning the slow streams meandering down from 
 brackish pools. And, before night softens the mystery of 
 the dark forest, perhaps we have built an outer court, a 
 wall studded with shells and starfish, an abutment and 
 half an arch of bridge; the rest is still a plan, still a dream. 
 No matter ; there is always to-morrow to-morrow we will
 
 8 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 build better and more wisely. And if the tide rises in the 
 night, if the flood tide laps and crumbles our work even 
 as we dust our hands and turn away in satisfaction 
 there is still to-morrow. To-morrow and a smooth 
 beach. .
 
 CHAPTER THE SECOND 
 
 THE first thing I can remember is being suspended by 
 the heels over a half-hogshead, set under the eaves to 
 catch the drip from the roof. My father had stirred the 
 water until it was one great circling whirlpool, ropy, and 
 black, and terrible, and had then held me over it just 
 to hear me howl, I imagine. He was a great deal of an 
 overgrown boy in those days, although in later times he 
 was grave enough. I think that my mother made a great 
 to-do over it; I have a faint recollection of her rescuing 
 me from a watery grave and scolding my father in mock- 
 virago fashion. 
 
 "You might take some one your own size, you great 
 brute," she said, and only the soft lifted curve of her 
 cheek close to mine told me that she meant nothing seri- 
 ous. I'm not sure, but I think there was a sweet Irish 
 tang to her low voice, the barest possible suggestion of 
 a brogue. 
 
 My father must have threatened to treat her in the 
 same manner, for she fled to the protecting door of the 
 house, turned to make faces at him, and bore me indoors 
 to be sustained and comforted with gingerbread men. 
 
 I have but one other remembrance of my mother. I 
 had heard some one tell how the Lord "walked in the 
 garden, in the cool of the day," and had stolen down one 
 spring morning to look for His footprints under the lilacs 
 and syringas in the garden behind the house. The grass 
 was still drenched with dew, my feet were soon chilled 
 and the hem of my night-shirt in a sadly bedraggled state. 
 I found no footprints save those of the nocturnal snail
 
 10 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 and must have set up a most lusty wailing, for my mother 
 came out with a tartan shawl over her shoulders and two 
 long, shining braids of hair down her back. She tucked 
 me in bed again, promising to help me in my search, later 
 in the day. She must have died soon after that ; I myself 
 was near death with typhoid for a long time a matter 
 of drains, I think, and not the result of this early morn- 
 ing expedition. I know that when I came downstairs 
 again, a weak, scraggly shadow of a boy, she was gone. 
 I missed her, but only vaguely ; her loss was obscured by 
 the fact that upon coming downstairs again I graduated 
 from kilts to trousers and became a man. 
 
 These two fragmentary memories stand without back- 
 ground, absolutely unconnected with anything else in my 
 experience. They seem now part of another existence, 
 connected with my present life only by shadowy links. I 
 retain a faint impression of my convalescence, and being 
 propped up with cushions on a broad window ledge look- 
 ing out over the straggling garden and the street and 
 the house roofs lower down on the hill. I seem to recall 
 the view from this window as it appeared to me then; 
 a low swung arch of the horse chestnut tree before the 
 house framed a flawed blue sea and brown rocks and oc- 
 casional white sails passing and repassing in slow contra- 
 dance. I remember exploring the house as I grew 
 stronger, investigating the mysteries of lilac clumps and 
 gnarled apple trees and the shingled henhouse with the 
 yard before it grown up to a jungle of prickly weeds. 
 And clearest of all, and peculiar to this early period, I 
 recall the constant procession of serving girls who came, 
 abode their hour, and passed on out of my knowledge. 
 
 They came and went not servant girls in the modern 
 sense, but girls who came in to cook and to clean up the 
 house, spinsters who poked into bureau drawers while 
 my father was away at the store and who called me "poor 
 little fellow," thereby winning my contempt. This was 
 before the days of the modern cook-girl with her Scan-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 11 
 
 dinavian accent, songs of the Fatherland and rudimentary 
 ideas on the construction of apple pie. Among the train 
 there was one old lady who sticks out in my memory for 
 her uncanny knack of turning everything into Irish stew, 
 a dish which my father heartily detested. Despite this 
 failing she remained longer than any of the others, long 
 enough, at any rate, to impress herself upon my memory. 
 Perhaps the fact that she had the rare gift of silence 
 had something to do with my father's toleration of her 
 weird culinary performances. 
 
 But she left us, finally; they all left on one excuse or 
 another. Their departure was usually the signal for 
 rejoicing on both sides. 
 
 "Now, by Joe, we'll have some regular grub," my father 
 would say. 
 
 And we would for a while. My father was a good 
 cook he made a chowder which lingers yet as a bright 
 spot in my gustatory memories but he invariably tired 
 of it after a week or so. I usually anticipated him by 
 becoming tired of washing dishes and sweeping floors 
 both very sketchy performances on my part. Our meals 
 usually degenerated into bread and milk, supplemented 
 by canned goods from the store. Sooner or later the 
 time would come when my father, after rattling about 
 for a time in the kitchen, appeared in the doorway in 
 disgust. 
 
 "Which is it, son, beans or roast chicken with all the 
 fixings?" he would ask. 
 
 I cast my vote for chicken. 
 
 "Good. But we'll have to go down to the Province 
 House to get that," he would say. "I don't believe that 
 beans with blue mold on them are healthy, anyway." 
 
 The next day we would have a new girl. The first 
 day of the new regime was always marked by a vigorous 
 house cleaning my assertions that I had cleaned house 
 the day before being wantonly disregarded. Surprising 
 the places they would dig dust and dirt from places
 
 12 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 where I would never have thought of looking. Usually, 
 too, they pried apart my carefully stacked dishes and 
 gave them all a thorough washing, perhaps desiring to 
 avoid unpleasant discoveries later. 
 
 I recovered from typhoid, and, at the age of four, be- 
 came a partner in my father's business. He kept a store, 
 a combination grocery-clothing-hardware store down on 
 Front Street, just back from the wharves. It was alto- 
 gether a very wonderful store; not the least wonderful 
 feature of it was the weather beaten sign over the door 
 JOHN COFFIN, in great fat capitals. This was my 
 father's name and mine also. 
 
 We would go down the hill together, my father and 
 I, my feet drumming along between the heavier bass beats 
 of his stride, the clean morning air from the sea coming 
 in cool gusts against our faces, here and there a gray 
 plume of smoke rising from the chimneys and the occa- 
 sional scream of gulls from the harbor breaking the si- 
 lence. On very calm mornings we could hear the rattle 
 of blocks and creak of rigging and sometimes catch stray 
 snatches of conversation from the distant boats, or hear 
 the thump of rowlocks as some hake fisher brought his 
 catch to the wharf. It was all strange and wonderful 
 and clean, this being abroad while the rest of the world 
 was still abed. Long after this I came across the phrase 
 "Das Morgenuhr hat Geld ins Mund" in some textbook 
 or other and the words brought it all back to me; the 
 calm broken only by our clattering footsteps and the 
 glint of the strong morning sun on my father's heavy 
 black beard as I gazed up at him. Sometimes he met my 
 glance and smiled down on me, but usually his gaze was 
 fixed on the sails of the fishing fleet, far beyond the light 
 house on the morning sea. 
 
 As we approached the store my father fished the great
 
 FLOOD TIDE 13 
 
 key from his pocket and dangled it from his finger as he 
 went along. We clumped over the loose-boarded walk 
 in front and he opened and swung back the old door. A 
 swirl of spicy odors marbled with stray whiffs of coffee 
 and cinnamon greeted us, the cat came stretching and 
 mewing forth from the back of the store usually followed 
 by a sprawling and staggering legion of offspring and 
 the day's work was begun. 
 
 I spent the greater part of these days in playing about 
 the store-room in the rear, conducting exploring expedi- 
 tions among the litter of bales and boxes and making a 
 general nuisance of myself. There was a thin stream of 
 customers in the store most of the day, women with mar- 
 ket-baskets a vanished race now and fishermen whose 
 garments smelt most strongly of their calling and who 
 wore rubber boots and flannel shirts however hot and dry 
 the weather. These last were my chief delight ; they were 
 a weather beaten race of men, loud voiced and terrible 
 chewers of tobacco. They would demand of my father 
 "where that young sculpin was at," and, running me to 
 earth despite my shrieks of simulated terror, would ride 
 me about the store on their shoulder, my head close to 
 the blackened hand-hewn beams among the fly blown lamps 
 and swinging oilskins. Once red letter day! one of 
 them presented me with a miniature brig, carved from 
 bone and the whole cunningly encased in a bottle smelling 
 faintly and mysteriously like the donor's breath. 
 
 Perhaps I am beginning my search for causes at too 
 early a date, but surely these first years of my life 
 must have had a great effect on what came after. I 
 must have had a strong propensity for imagination to 
 begin with and this early part of my life strengthened 
 it. My principal occupation then, as it has been since, 
 was imagining things. Curiosity was my chief charac- 
 teristic ; a curiosity always gratified by my father. What- 
 ever theory of education he had consisted of answering 
 my questions as well as he could, never answering me quite
 
 14 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 as completely as I desired, but always leaving a little tag 
 of uncompleteness as an inspiration to further question- 
 ings. As my questions broadened in scope he developed 
 a certain quality of metaphor and simile which served 
 admirably to link things together and bring new matters 
 within my horizon. 
 
 I had no trouble in finding material for inquiry about 
 the store. China, for instance; somehow I had built up 
 an image of China as a land of blue and yellow, with 
 many-skirted pagodas and blue arched bridges and fish- 
 ermen on the banks of impossibly zigzag streams, prob- 
 ably deriving my inspiration from an incomplete set of 
 cracked crockery at home. Then I found a connection 
 between the tea chests at the store and the set of crockery 
 at home and took the matter to my father for solution. 
 
 "I'm not up on China," he confessed, and drummed 
 reflectively on the counter. "My voyages were mostly 
 to European ports, you know. Suppose we let it wait 
 over awhile; guess the Eternal Kingdom won't change 
 while we wait." 
 
 That night, by some strange chance, old Henry Rideout 
 came clumping up to the house with his twisted foot, a 
 tight rolled chart beneath his arm. He and my father 
 cleared the table of its litter of books and tobacco ash and 
 went over the chart together, I kneeling on a chair be- 
 tween them and following Henry's stubby finger with 
 breathless interest. 
 
 And for weeks after that I kept a sharp lookout over 
 the harbor for opium pirates and junks with paper sails 
 and great staring eyes on either side of the bow. 
 
 There was another result of this manner of living. I 
 became selfish, not intentionally but inevitably. Both at 
 home and at the store I had everything I asked for ; such 
 a thing as an unattainable desire failed to enter into my 
 calculations. In the scheme of things I came first, with the 
 rest of the world a bad second. 
 
 In truth, there was no rest of the world. Most of my
 
 FLOOD TIDE 15 
 
 days were lonely; I knew no children of my own age and 
 was quite content to build my air castles and conduct 
 voyages of discovery among the inexhaustible mysteries 
 of the store. Once I fell asleep in a dim cave far in the 
 rear of the shed, and was awakened by my father calling 
 to me through the darkness. He carried me home that 
 night, my head nodding drowsily over his shoulder. 
 
 "Golly," I said sleepily, "working in a store is hard 
 work, isn't it, Dad?" 
 
 And he agreed quite gravely that it was. 
 
 in 
 
 It was soon after this, I think, that I discovered that 
 there were other stores beside my father's. 
 
 I must have made this discovery on my first excursion 
 into the town; I cannot remember straying from the 
 streets between our house and the store before this. I 
 had become tired of playing about the store and must 
 have wandered through the front door and down the 
 street while my father was busy elsewhere. 
 
 I went along, peering into back yards and front yards 
 through palings and getting myself thoroughly lost after 
 a while. Then, with startling abruptness, I came out into 
 the Square and discovered other stores. My world rocked 
 on its foundations. 
 
 Even the towering grandeur of the Town Hall, directly 
 across from me, failed to hold my attention in the face 
 of this discovery. I gaped at these other stores ; they re- 
 sembled my father's in a distant fashion ; there were coun- 
 ters inside with boxes canted against them; people came 
 out bearing bundles. ... A horrible suspicion entered 
 my mind. Was this China? I knew that I had come a 
 long way. Perhaps. 
 
 As I looked about for pigtails and pagodas a familiar 
 figure crossed the street the man who had presented me
 
 16 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 with the carved brig. He stared at me and then ap- 
 proached. 
 
 "Ain't you lost, so far from home?" he inquired 
 genially. 
 
 That settled it ; China was far from home and this was 
 China. And this man would probably shanghai me and 
 make me work my passage home before the mast. I de- 
 cided to return overland, and, without answering his hail, 
 I turned and ran back the way I had come as fast as my 
 legs would carry me. 
 
 He shouted after me, but I only ran the faster. Up 
 streets and down streets I ran. Finally, by some miracle, 
 I found the familiar door of the store. I shot in, pant- 
 ing and sobbing. 
 
 My father took the news calmly enough, after he had 
 succeeded in making out what I was trying to tell him. 
 Finally he understood that I had found other stores 
 he disillusioned me on the China part of it. But that 
 made it worse. Other stores in town! "Damnable" was 
 not part of my vocabulary then, but that was the way I 
 felt about it. He heard me through with the utmost pa- 
 tience. 
 
 "I know," he said, when I had finished. "I've known 
 about Adams and Bridges, and Patch Brothers and all 
 those other fellows for a long time. But I didn't want to 
 bother you about it. You see, Whitehaven is a pretty 
 big town now and there's more trade than one store could 
 handle. And if this was the only store in town I could 
 put prices as high as I liked, and folks would either have 
 to buy of me or go without." 
 
 This argument impressed me as eminently fair, and I 
 considered it as best I could. 
 
 "And if some one else ran the only store in town they 
 might raise the prices of things, too," I suggested. 
 
 "That's just it," he agreed. "You've hit it first shot. 
 We act as a check on one another, you see. You can't 
 get along without competition. ... By the way, Lucy
 
 FLOOD TIDE ' 17 
 
 said something about making some sugar cookies this af- 
 ternoon. You don't know a healthy young lad with an 
 appetite, do you?" 
 
 So ended my first lesson in economics. Lucy, our cook 
 pro tern, was the possessor of a famous recipe for cookies, 
 handed doAvn from her grandmother's time, and I hurried 
 away up the hill to assure her that her cookies would 
 never gather mold while I had my health and appetite. 
 
 That afternoon I stuffed the front of my blouse with 
 cookies and climbed to my favorite perch in one of the 
 apple trees the cookies suffered in the ascent, I remem- 
 ber, and the fragments sifted down into my boots, mak- 
 ing me feel like an early Christian doing penance and 
 sat down to reason out the matter as best I could with 
 my limited knowledge of the world. But this knowledge 
 was so limited that I made a sad botch of it; the only 
 definite conclusion I made was that my father was a man 
 of unparalleled generosity in allowing this state of af- 
 fairs to continue. After all, these other stores appeared 
 to me highly unnecessary. 
 
 But I didn't tell my father what I thought. He 
 brought up the subject again that evening, as we sat 
 together in the living room after supper. He went into 
 the matter rather thoroughly, elaborated his views on 
 the necessity of competition and proved his case to his 
 own satisfaction and my own bewilderment. I clung to 
 my original doubt with a new found stubbornness ; it was 
 the first time that I had thought for myself and the first 
 time that I had disagreed with my father's opinions. I 
 enjoyed the sensation. 
 
 Competition impressed my youthful mind as something 
 eminently unfair and wasteful. I still have that impres- 
 sion, changed somewhat, and with the direct sense of per- 
 sonal injury gone from it, but still much the same. I 
 had imagined a world with our store as the center; 
 abruptly I discovered a world in which the store was 
 merely a satellite of a very minor planet indeed. It hurt.
 
 18 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Before I went to bed that night I planned to do away 
 with competition entirely and forever to abolish it by 
 decree when I attained wisdom and manhood. 
 
 We often talked together in the evening in this man- 
 ner or rather my father talked and I made valiant ef- 
 forts to follow him. Sometimes he read to me and some- 
 times talked ; and once or twice I remember his breaking 
 off in the midst of a story and picking up his book again. 
 I have always thought that he did this to avoid bringing 
 in my mother's name, for he never trusted himself to 
 speak of her. I learned her maiden name and her age 
 from the stone in the old graveyard, but that is all I 
 know of her. 
 
 It is quite likely that I discovered Whitehaven by de- 
 grees, the unwelcome companion of boys older than my- 
 self. But, looking back, I seem to find myself cast into 
 it all at once. I must have been eight years old at the 
 time. 
 
 I carried a torch, as I remember this sudden discovery ; 
 an evil smelling, oil dripping, flaring and guttering con- 
 traption. The stick rests in the waistband of my trou- 
 sers and produces an anticipatory Thanksgiving effect. 
 I march at the elbow of a stout man with a shining big 
 mouthed horn looped over his shoulder in a glorified blan- 
 ket roll. He scowls, puffs and produces the melodious 
 oompah-oompah part of a soul-stirring music which 
 marches with me. He pauses and gasps for breath; with 
 the pause his face returns to human form. He reaches 
 out a hand and pulls me down to earth. 
 
 "You hold that torch where I can see my sheets," he 
 commands gruffly. "What d'you think you are the 
 whole peerade?" 
 
 "Yessir," I answer eagerly. 
 
 He scowls doubtfully, then suddenly purses his lips 
 and shatters the air again with his two notes up and
 
 FLOOD TIDE 19 
 
 down the scale. I hold the torch closer, to the immediate 
 peril of his eyebrows. But he seems satisfied and I surely 
 am. 
 
 The music crashes to a superb finale; the staccato beat 
 of a drum emerges from the ambush of sound; the re- 
 splendent uniform beside me empties its horn and clamps 
 on a fresh sheet of music as we march. From one side 
 of his mouth he informs his neighbor, a tall man with 
 an equally resplendent uniform, that these hills sure raise 
 hell with a man's wind. The tall man agrees that he is 
 hooting right. I treasure their utterances. 
 
 Beyond the tall man is another torch, borne sturdily 
 aloft by Dick Stowell. Ahead, a third torch bobs along 
 over the shoulder of Bunny Long; other torches tell that 
 the rest of the gang are scattered among the band. I half 
 envy the Bemish kids; they march with the front rank. 
 
 "Ain't it great, Coffin?" calls Stowell. 
 
 "Ain't it great?" I echo. 
 
 Bunny turns, a streak of oil from brow to chin. "Gee, 
 I hope they march all night!" 
 
 A shape materializes beside me. 
 
 "Aw, let me lug it for a while, Coffy," it begs. "You 
 can have it again when they begin to play. Honest. 
 Come on, let me lug it!" 
 
 I shift the butt of the torch to an easier position and 
 refuse. The shape tries its blandishments on Dick, with 
 the same results. It drops back and trudges disconso- 
 lately in our rear. 
 
 Then, as I remember it, we reached the brow of the hill 
 above the railroad station. Stowell, Bunny, the fat man 
 with the horn all were forgotten. I stared open mouthed 
 ahead. All High Street blazed with dancing torches, lines 
 of them, four abreast, moving in rhythmic beat. The 
 long lines twinkled, dwindled in the distance, swung around 
 the corner by the Common, reappeared and were swal- 
 lowed up in the yawning gulf of Front Street. A million 
 torches more than a million. Here and there trans-
 
 20 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 parencies and banners punctuated the lines. Another 
 band throbbed and brayed in the distance. 
 
 I gaped, faced about, and looked back. The band on 
 which my torch shed illumination headed the second sec- 
 tion. Down the winding slope to the station wavered 
 more lights another million torches. Line after line 
 they stretched away; banners, marching men and flick- 
 ering lights ; the scuffling of innumerable feet over frozen 
 ground ; "hep hep I had a good job but I hep hep." 
 Half way down the line a transparency blazed up in a 
 sudden jet of flame; it rose and fell as the bearer tried to 
 beat out the fire, to an accompaniment of jeers; it soared 
 in an abrupt arc and blazed steadily in a vacant lot. 
 
 The advancing front line loomed above me as I gaped ; 
 every man of them ten feet high, wonderful in red coats, 
 blue pants and white capes. Overhead a great banner 
 stretched taut in the still evening air CLEVELAND 
 AND HENDRICKS in great shining letters. The drum, 
 now beyond me, resounded in a sharp thunder roll a 
 pause a sharp double tap and the band burst forth 
 into music beautiful beyond all well, the band burst 
 forth into music. 
 
 "As I was walking down the street 
 
 I found a dollar and a quarter, 
 Ten thousand Micks layed down their bricks 
 At the Battle of the Boyne Water." 
 
 So sang a derisive voice from the silent crowd on the 
 sidewalk. There was a perceptible sway of the marching 
 ranks toward the sound; a sharp command and they 
 swayed back again into line. 
 
 "Not yet, laddy bucks, not yet. We're here to con- 
 vert the benighted to the love of Grover peaceably if we 
 can. Wait a while. . . . You lad, scuttle ahead before 
 you get hurted." 
 
 I scuttled ahead and took up my place again.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 81 
 
 A drum beat within me; I stepped high. This was 
 Whitehaven as it should be; marching throngs, lights, 
 music, massed crowds on the sidewalks and myself in the 
 very center of it. We descended the undulating slope of 
 the hill between lines of silent watchers ; the torches set 
 the many-paned windows of the old houses aglow and 
 bathed their frowning fronts in new beauty. We reached 
 the Common, swung around one side and entered the 
 Square; the white pillared town house frowned down on 
 us in disapproval. The great bell of the Orthodox Church 
 boomed eight as we marched by; our music was momen- 
 tarily obscured. The booming ceased, and the music 
 soared on, triumphant over time. 
 
 Across the lower end of the Square hung a great ban- 
 ner, dependent from the roofs on either side. The ranks 
 ahead reached ineffectually for it with their torches. Two 
 men from the last rank fell back; a third sprang aloft on 
 their locked arms ; a torch shot swiftly up. The banner 
 smouldered, then showed a tiny spark of blaze. A shout 
 and shower of debris from the sidewalk and the pyramid 
 dissolved. As we passed below, the blaze grew to a con- 
 suming flare; the painted letters of the BLAINE AND 
 LOGAN stood forth in fire ; then the rope parted and two 
 sweeping arcs of blazing canvas scattered the sidewalk 
 crowds. A yell of delight surged back along the ad- 
 vancing lines. 
 
 A yell of a different sort went up as we passed Tuttle 
 and Wetherbee's Grain and Feed Store. The door in 
 the gable opened and closed with a bang, leaving a limp, 
 dangling figure swinging from the projecting beam over- 
 head. For a moment the reality of it sickened me, brought 
 my heart into my throat. Then, as the figure twisted 
 around and faced the coming procession I recognized an- 
 other piece of pleasantry. A placard on the straw stuffed 
 paunch announced that this was Cleveland a delicate 
 satire, the humor of which failed to appeal to the 
 marchers.
 
 22 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Keep your eyes skun, Jimmy," advised the fat man, 
 in a pause of the music. 
 
 The tall man with the slip horn eyed him morosely. 
 "I just got the old horn straightened out from the last 
 time," he said. "If any son of a sea-cook smashes her 
 again ." 
 
 He drifted off into muttered threats. I listened, won- 
 dering. 
 
 We swung into Front Street and went on. We passed 
 my father's store, tightly shuttered and dark, the raised 
 walk before it a haven of refuge for the women folk. Fur- 
 ther on we passed under the bowsprit of the Polydore, the 
 last of the Whitehaven three-stickers, poked inquiringly 
 across the street. Dark figures lined the jibboom over- 
 head, arms resting comfortably on the spar, their illumi- 
 nated feet on the taut footropes below. I envied them 
 their bird's eye view of the procession. 
 
 We went on, bands playing, torches wavering and flick- 
 ering, two million feet no less rising and falling in 
 rhythmic tramp before me, two million more echoing be- 
 hind. We wound up hill, and the lights before made a 
 glittering Jacob's ladder to the Milky Way; we writhed 
 down hill again and a glittering, shimmering lane of 
 lights followed us as the children of Hamelin followed the 
 Pied Piper. We passed through the Back District, where 
 the Portuguese lived, and were greeted with uproarious 
 applause from lines of swarthy faces. This, by the way, 
 was the only section that did applaud our progress. We 
 marched and countermarched through the broken-backed 
 Whitehaven streets, doubling and twisting; the band 
 played, the torches smoked and shone, the marchers 
 shouted songs, crowds without end lined the way, the grim 
 old Colonial fronts frowned down on our boisterous prog- 
 ress and made a bad job of it. 
 
 Bodily, I stumbled along, an insignificant part of the 
 spectacle, bearing my torch which by this time had 
 tripled its weight. Mentally and perhaps this is a good
 
 FLOOD TIDE 23 
 
 indication of the kind of boy I was I climbed the porch 
 of the old Macomber house and reviewed the procession. 
 From that vantage point you got a view of the throng 
 approaching down Queen Street; without turning your 
 head you could see them wheel and file away among the 
 network of streets toward the waterfront. I made a men- 
 tal picture of it, every figure heroic size, every torch out- 
 shining the light on Great Head. My only regret was 
 that I had but one body to contribute to the spectacle; 
 I wanted two one to march and the other to stand aside 
 and watch the first march by. 
 
 We turned into Front Street again and the fat man 
 with the horn was visibly relieved. 
 
 "All straight going now, Jimmy," he observed cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 "Yep," answered the slip-horn artist. He sniffed fas- 
 tidiously. "Stinking hole, isn't it?" 
 
 We were by this time nearly under the bowsprit of the 
 Polydore again. I sniffed, in imitation of the tall man. 
 There was indeed an overpowering smell of fish in the 
 air. The bowsprit loomed overhead, the black spider web 
 of rigging meshing the stars. 
 
 Then many things happened. From the spar above 
 came the silvery trill of a bos'n's pipe; the crimson flare 
 of a Coston light lit up the low roofs of the shacks across 
 the street. Twin spouts of water shot from the bow- 
 sprit, falling in glittering arcs, every drop a ruby. One 
 played on the rear of the first section, one on the head 
 of the advancing column. The low roofs sprouted fig- 
 ures ; arms rose and fell, showering the uniformed ranks 
 with a shrapnel of odoriferous cods' heads. In the mo- 
 mentary silence that followed the assault came the rapid 
 clank of pumps from the deck of the Polydore. The 
 clock on the Orthodox Church cleared its throat with a 
 preliminary rasp and started to boom the hour. 
 
 Then, quite suddenly, the tall man and I stood alone 
 in a cleared space. The band vanished in a compact rush
 
 24 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 to the sidewalk. The bell mouth of the tall man's horn 
 had been the billet of a particularly squashy cod's head ; 
 he swore shrilly and danced in rage, defying the universe 
 to come on. 
 
 They came. A roar of voices rolled over the tall man 
 and reduced his cursing to visible but inarticulate mouth- 
 ing; a dark phalanx charged from a side street and fell 
 upon the flank of the marchers; Front Street, from end 
 to end, exploded in a sudden riot of combat. Dark fig- 
 ures dropped from roofs, caught their balance, and 
 charged with joyous whoops. Torches rose and fell and 
 vanished underfoot. 
 
 My island of isolation narrowed swiftly. The tall man 
 joined the combat, his horn glittering in flailing blows. 
 Still the lines retreated. They joined. By some miracle 
 I found myself raised aloft on shoulders, squeezed up- 
 ward instead of being trampled underfoot. 
 
 I swayed and reeled as the crowd surged beneath me. 
 Fists thudded; the shouting dwindled to grunts and 
 sharp intakes of breath. Intent, drawn faces appeared 
 and vanished in the swirl of combat. I watched, still 
 clutching my torch, without the slightest feeling of dan- 
 ger. 
 
 Then, above the drone of battle, I heard my name. 
 
 "Jack !" 
 
 I looked, and saw my father staring down from the 
 flat roof opposite. For a moment his eyes held mine. I 
 was suddenly afraid. 
 
 "Keep up!" he called, making a trumpet of his hands. 
 He swung over the edge, dangled a moment, and dropped. 
 He straightened, located me swiftly, and shot into the 
 crowd. Not into it, but under it; his head when he dis- 
 appeared was waist-high. The mass of men reeled under 
 the impact. He disappeared, but a sub-surface commo- 
 tion marked his passage. Figures surged apart sud- 
 denly and unaccountably; one man shot aloft and hung 
 there for a moment, grinning foolishly at me across the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 25 
 
 heaving backs below. A fresh commotion and he up-ended 
 suddenly and vanished with a waving of legs. My sup- 
 port rocked violently. I clutched desperately with my 
 free hand, wavered, toppled backward and was grasped 
 from behind. 
 
 "Hold tight, son," said a familiar voice. My father's 
 left arm went about me; we began to move slowly out 
 of the press. We gained a step, swayed as some fresh 
 onslaught set the crowd swaying. We stood a moment, 
 his arm a bar of iron about my waist, the veins on his 
 forehead standing out with the strain. A giant of an 
 Irishman faced slowly toward us as the mob turned, a 
 frayed fringe of his rubber cape clinging about his neck 
 in a tattered ruff. He grinned cavernously and aimed a 
 mighty fist at my father. My torch swung down, my 
 father's right hand shot up, palm outward; both hand 
 and torch struck at the same moment. A look of content 
 overspread the Irishman's face, his eyes closed, and, as 
 though pulled by an invisible string, he slumped down out 
 of sight. 
 
 We became the center of a little whirlpool of activity. 
 Fists shot out, fell short or were beaten down by my 
 father's free hand. I swung my torch, now a battered 
 and tinkling wreck, belaboring every head within reach. 
 A swing of the crowd carried us under the projecting bow- 
 sprit; the dolphin striker loomed overhead, just beyond 
 my reach. 
 
 "Up, Jackie," gasped my father. I shot up as he 
 heaved, grasped the backropes and swung up in safety. 
 A moment, and my father followed me in a mighty leap, 
 those below clutching in vain at his dangling heels. 
 
 He breathed heavily for a moment, then laughed. 
 
 "They're too close to do much damage," he said. Then 
 he turned to me quickly. "Not hurt, are you?" 
 
 Now that I was safe, I was crying and ashamed of it. 
 
 "N-no," I sobbed. "But I b-busted my torch and I 
 wanted to keep it."
 
 26 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Then, as abruptly as it began, the fight was over. The 
 mob below broke into fleeing and pursuing units. A 
 great shout from the Square told that the first column 
 had been routed. The Coston light subsided to a red 
 point, and, with a final resonant hum, the church clock 
 finished striking the hour. 
 
 Whenever, in these later years, I think of the White- 
 haven of my boyhood it stands forth in the lurid colors 
 of that night, illuminated in the high light of adventure. 
 The prosaic old town of my later remembrances, with its 
 dull houses, dusty streets somnolent under plumed elms, 
 deserted wharves fringed with sea-green beards swaying in 
 the slow tides all that is quite another place. 
 
 In this old Whitehaven romance was always just 
 around the next crooked corner of the winding street. 
 The marshes behind the town were the shores of the High 
 Barbaree, their winding channels all unknown rivers to be 
 explored on rafts consisting of three railroad ties nailed 
 together with driftwood. The wind-swept, sun-drenched 
 sickle of golden beach was the Sahara disregarding the 
 incongruity of the ocean its dunes were mighty hills and 
 its scattered pines marked oases. 
 
 But this Whitehaven has vanished. Perhaps it existed 
 only in my imagination ; perhaps it still exists in the mind 
 of some youngster running about town to-day. 
 
 Still there has been a real and evident change in the 
 town. There was brave talk of electric cars as I grew 
 older; they finally materialized during the years when I 
 was away at college bob-tailed little cars which pitched 
 and clattered their way along the quiet streets. With 
 them came the change; they brought Sunday trippers 
 from the mill towns inland the same towns that had 
 sent the Democratic torch light parade. A sporadic 
 growth of bathing houses sprang up along the curve of the 
 beach, Front Street took up the fish dinner trade, the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 27 
 
 picture post card made its appearance and the old White- 
 haven was gone forever. Sunday became a day of noise 
 and crowded streets, and after a few weak efforts to get 
 back into the old quiet fashion the town finally gave in 
 and tailed along with the procession. 
 
 The change brought prosperity of a sort, but it has 
 taken more than it gave. The old charm is gone and gone 
 forever. Factories have sprung up. There is a power 
 plant on the border of the marsh. The Point, across the 
 harbor, has been covered with bungalows and more pre- 
 tentious summer dwellings. There is a new macadam road 
 across the marsh, a broad gray strip by day and a flick- 
 ering firefly lane by night. 
 
 But to return to that lurid night of the Cleveland- 
 Elaine campaign. I remember that Stowell and I talked 
 about it later years later. We were wiser and older 
 then, immeasurably older. We had attained high school 
 and long pants. Cleveland had been elected, had served 
 his term, been defeated for reelection by Harrison and 
 was running again. We discussed the campaign and 
 added to our consciousness of wisdom by contrasting it 
 with memories of past campaigns. And, of course, we 
 recalled and exchanged remembrances of the torch light 
 parade and the resultant row. 
 
 "What a crazy night that was !" Dick said. "My 
 brother Frank came home with two black eyes and half a 
 shirt. And I got whopped for staying out late." 
 
 I ventured a vague question. "What did you think 
 of it at the time?" 
 
 He considered. "I thought it was good fun," he said 
 unimaginatively. 
 
 "No more?" 
 
 "No. What other view of it could I take?" 
 
 "I don't know," I answered and paused helplessly. 
 "You couldn't look at it in any other way, I suppose. 
 . . . You know that engraving down in the Town Hall 
 Napoleon at the bridge of Lodi?"
 
 28 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Yes," he admitted suspiciously. "Napoleon with a 
 flag and the rest of the crowd tearing after him; off in 
 the clouds scenes from Napoleon's future St. Helena 
 tucked away in one corner. What about it?" 
 
 "I felt like that only more so." 
 
 He stared at me blankly, evidently not understanding 
 in the least. I myself only half understood what I tried 
 to express. 
 
 But I know that in my visions there was no St. Helena. 
 
 I spare you a reconstruction of my early school days. 
 I was not interested in school. Few boys are. Thanks 
 to my father's instruction I was spared the necessity of 
 learning to read and write and perform the simpler arith- 
 metical calculations. Beyond the fact that I covered the 
 first two grades in one year my recollections of school 
 are distinctly fragmentary in character. 
 
 I have the impression that primary education, at that 
 time, was passing through a period of transition from 
 the old "three R" form to the more modern form of educa- 
 tion the system that considers the child as an individual 
 problem rather than as one of a row of vessels to be filled 
 to a certain level with information. I remember gray- 
 headed and bearded members of the school committee com- 
 ing to visit the school, clad in ceremonial creaking boots 
 and unaccustomed boiled shirts. They listened solemnly 
 to our singing and inspected our crude water colors of 
 apples, flowers and geometrical forms and then went away 
 shaking their heads. Through the door one saw them 
 consult doubtfully in the corridors, no doubt lamenting 
 the Zeitgeist that had forced these departures from the 
 good old methods. One of them, after sniffing and snort- 
 ing at our highfalutin' ideas, attempted to put us through 
 a drill in mental arithmetic, getting himself most sadly
 
 FLOOD TIDE 29 
 
 tangled in the process, to his discomfiture and the re- 
 joicing of his more progressive colleagues. 
 
 What impresses me now is the fact that even with 
 these improvements there was absolutely no connection 
 between school and life. Perhaps that is why I remember 
 so little of it. We fretted through simple and compound 
 fractions without the slightest notion of their practical 
 application. We had legions of unassociated things 
 beaten into our reluctant young heads things that we 
 should have learned easily and as a matter of course. 
 We were not taught ; we had lists of facts set before us, 
 to be committed to memory because it was so ordained. 
 
 Geography alone interested me merely because charts 
 and maps were familiar grounds to me. 
 
 But even here school failed most lamentably. Most 
 of us gathered a large contempt of book knowledge from 
 reading that "Oceanica includes all the islands of the Pa- 
 cific Ocean south of the Tropic of Cancer; it exports 
 tobacco, sugar, copra and rice," and then sitting at the 
 feet of Captain Bill Hawkins while he told us of atolls 
 and palm trees and natives with flashing white teeth. Why 
 were their teeth white? Because they were cannibals and 
 needed them in their business. 
 
 "Ah, boys, you haven't eaten until you've et human 
 flesh!" he would say, and then neglect to state whether 
 he had ever eaten or not. I imagine that he got as much 
 fun out of his stories as the listeners. He told us highly 
 colored tales of pirates in lateen rigged proas, showed 
 us Malay knives with crinkly blades, and enlightened us 
 about copra. It was not mined, as we had supposed. 
 
 Or old Schrader, from the heights of his ninety years, 
 would tell us of slaving voyages, of African swamps, and 
 rivers running rippleless between green arching walls. 
 He told us of the time they were overhauled by an Eng- 
 lish frigate off the Brazilian coast and got rid of their 
 incriminating cargo. 
 
 "How do you t'ink ?" he queried.
 
 30 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Shoot 'em?" ventured Dick Stowell. 
 
 "Yah! With bowder so dear, too? No! Siehst du. 
 There iss a port about half so big as that window. Well. 
 And above is the anchor on deck mit chain fathoms 
 of it. So. Now the chain overside and through the 
 port and mit spare irons ." 
 
 He had a rare gift of narrative; you could see every 
 blood spot and hear the clank of the chain as it ground 
 overboard with its shrieking freight. And then the hur- 
 ried swabbing up, the tossing overboard of what frag- 
 ments the chain left behind, the pink ripples about the 
 circling black fins it was strong meat. 
 
 Perhaps, after all, it was only natural that school failed 
 to hold our interest in the face of such competition. 
 
 I must have been all of twelve years old when my father 
 bought me the little dory around which so many of my 
 youthful recollections cluster. She was a dory with a 
 little triangular spritsail he had insisted on that despite 
 my ambitions to pile on all the canvas she would stagger 
 under, my purpose being to sail rings around Captain 
 Hawkins and his much vaunted Lily Lou. My father 
 promptly set his foot on that. I think the first bitter 
 moment of my life came when Captain Hawkins slid past 
 us on our maiden trip, his eyes fixed dreamily ahead and 
 his left hand toying with a coiled rope in the stern of the 
 Lily. I knew that this dumb show was his way of offer- 
 ing us a tow, and I hated him for it. 
 
 Still, by hoisting our shirts in light winds we managed 
 to get fairly good speed out of the Shadow, as I chris- 
 tened her. Along the water front this was corrupted to 
 Shad, because she was all ribs and not very roomy inside. 
 We decked her over forward and painted her gray and lied 
 valiantly about the knots she logged. When we had a 
 crew I was the Old Man and Dick Stowell filled the office
 
 FLOOD TIDE 31 
 
 of first mate the first mate, you know, does all the knock- 
 ing down. But usually we sailed alone, the two of us, 
 equal in command. 
 
 The Shadow is inseparably connected in my mind with 
 Buck's Island. This was one of our first discoveries, a 
 rocky little fragment of land between the town and Great 
 Head, thickly wooded and separated from the mainland 
 by a narrow channel. We built a hut there, against a 
 ledge; a rough hovel half filled by the chimney and fire- 
 place which we erected with infinite labor and which re- 
 fused to draw after all. This was our haven of refuge 
 on rainy days when the east wind came blustering in, 
 scattering silver rain with the prodigal hand of a sailor 
 just off a three years' cruise. Sometimes, I suspect, we 
 sailed down in the rain just for the pleasure of getting 
 dry again before our own hearthstone. On such days 
 we built up the fire until the wind roared loud over the 
 chimney, then sprawled before the fire and built air cas- 
 tles for each other's admiration. 
 
 This was my one point of superiority over Dick. I 
 could imagine ten things while he was trying to fix one 
 vaguely in his mind. His mental processes ran to plain 
 black and white; there were no shades between, no half 
 truths. Either a thing was so or it wasn't. To me there 
 seemed an infinite range of color, embracing all tints and 
 shades from the deepest purple of romance to the faintest 
 shadowing of gray reality. 
 
 Naturally we disagreed on many things. In fact, we 
 agreed on only one and we never talked of that. This 
 was the sea itself. Boylike, we could talk of concrete 
 matters, but a certain shyness kept us from discussing 
 the more abstract aspects of beauty. It was not shyness 
 alone, for we felt the beauty of the sea but vaguely and 
 lacked the vocabulary to express our thoughts. I am 
 glad now that we made no attempt to reduce these shad- 
 owy conceptions to speech, for at best we could have 
 evolved nothing but commonplace phrases. Often Dick
 
 32 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 and I would lie for hours on the cliff above the hut, silently 
 watching the cloud shadows drift over the sea, or follow- 
 ing the distant boats as they crawled slowly from one 
 lobster buoy to the next. We had no ideas of eternity or 
 religion but the sea was to us the visible sign of both. 
 
 Many a summer's afternoon we have lain on the cliff 
 until the evening fog banks crept in and threaded pearls 
 on the spider webs. We saw the fogbanks first as a long 
 white line on the distant blue, creeping imperceptibly 
 shoreward. They blotted out first the base of the light 
 house on the distant head, then veiled the white shaft 
 and finally engulfed the black bulb of the beacon. Then, 
 drifting slowly toward us along the slant of the shore, 
 the bank brought headland after headland into silhouette 
 against its blank wall of whiteness, dissolving woods and 
 cliffs. And, before the long white line reached the Island, 
 we could hear the bellow of the fog horn at the light, like 
 some great sea-monster yammering in helpless pain and 
 wrath. The cliffs gathered the echoes and flung them back 
 until we seemed surrounded by a herd of strange ante- 
 diluvian beasts, calling and clamoring to each other in 
 the dim whiteness. 
 
 Then we would go down, to cover the Shadow with the 
 tarpaulin, throw fresh logs on the smouldering fire and 
 talk far into the night. 
 
 I remember old Caspar Schrader, one night, telling us 
 of a summer night long ago, when his ship lay off Tahiti ; 
 the moonlight on the harbor brought back to him the 
 heavy perfume of the land breeze, the long silver pathway 
 of the moon, the lacelike lines of palms against the soft, 
 dusky sky, and the hush and beauty of it all. 
 
 "Ah, boys, id was wonder schon," he said, with a catch 
 in his quavering old voice, "wonder schon! The moon-path, 
 and the low rumble of the surf on the sand and the soft 
 tinkle of a woman's laugh across the silend water. Jim 
 and I leaned on the rail and drank it all in, until the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 33 
 
 moon slid down behind the hills and the last light on 
 shore was oud." 
 
 He puffed meditatively for a moment. 
 
 "But that was long, long ago," he went on, "and 
 Jim has been under the sea for forty fifty years now. 
 And old Caspar tells liddle boys stories by moonlight, 
 when they should be safe in bed." 
 
 And Dick and I went home through the silent streets. 
 We lived in the present, you see, and didn't talk about 
 such things, while old Caspar lived in the past. But we 
 felt them, just the same.
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRD 
 
 I LOOK back on the adolescent Coffin and despair of 
 giving you any clear impression of him. I myself see 
 him but dimly; his moods escape me. I must have been 
 sloughing off my childhood at this time and trying on the 
 garments of maturity; trying on first one set of clothes 
 and then another with bewildering rapidity. 
 
 The old veils with which I had swathed the world in 
 mysterious wonder were swept aside. I no longer dreamed 
 vaguely of South Sea islands ; I no longer went about 
 with strange names like Bab el Mandeb and Tierra del 
 Fuego, names resonant of adventure, ringing through the 
 back of my head. It had been a habit of mine to visualize 
 these places through the hypnosis of repetition, building 
 up mental images of them. And queer enough images 
 they were ; Tierra del Fuego is still associated in my mind 
 with volcanoes, palm trees and camels, while Mozambique 
 and Antofagasta still bring images of gaberdined He- 
 brews and drug stores. But now these childish specula- 
 tions had been outgrown and supplanted by ambitions. 
 
 I drifted, or rather swung violently, from one ambition 
 to another. For almost a year I was engrossed in a great 
 vision of being a railroad man ; time tables from one end 
 of the country to the other filled my pockets and there 
 was a great box of railroad literature under my bod in 
 the low roofed chamber. This dream perished from over- 
 expansion, wandering off into steamship lines and bridge 
 construction. Besides, the dingy dustiness of our little 
 railroad station where I would have to start my con- 
 quest repelled me more than a little. That was not ro- 
 34
 
 FLOOD TIDE 35 
 
 mance, but work. I think that you get the distinction. 
 But even now the quadruple blast of a locomotive whis- 
 tling for crossings brings faint memories of the days 
 when that blast was the trumpet call of romance. 
 
 Again, I was inspired to become a great painter, feeling 
 the first stirrings of the creative instinct. I spent weeks 
 in following an art class from Boston about the rocks 
 of the Point and the beach below the fish houses, worship- 
 ing and questioning. I remember still the feverish disap- 
 pointment that was mine when I first tried to draw and 
 found that I couldn't. I started a great picture on one 
 of our largest sheets of wrapping paper; the subject, if I 
 remember correctly, was Dick and I standing off a rush of 
 mutineers, splotches of blood on the deck and great green 
 seas and tattered rigging in the background. Youth al- 
 ways runs to high colors and lurid effects. This first 
 composition of mine never got beyond a smudged and 
 scratchy pencil sketch, marvelously out of proportion. 
 I remember crying over it as I worked, although I was 
 almost fifteen at the time, crying from sheer rage because 
 I could see it all so clearly and was utterly unable to set 
 it down. This was my first attempt to give a vision the 
 substance and form of reality and was a most lamentable 
 and piteous failure. I had seen Dick thousands of times 
 but when I tried to draw his nose I failed completely. I 
 drew my own profile, with the aid of two mirrors, and 
 stared in amazement at the distorted result. I have found 
 the same trouble many times since, this outrunning of 
 the hand by the mind, but never since have I experienced 
 the same keen and overwhelming disappointment at my 
 failure to bring my mind pictures to reality. 
 
 But here the other side of my nature came in. I wanted 
 to draw; I would draw whether I could or not. I hung 
 on the outskirts of that art class until I was nicknamed 
 "The Pest." Finally in self defense, I think I was 
 given an hour's instruction, told that one started to be 
 an artist by drawing simple things first, and begged not
 
 36 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 to annoy them further. Whether I did or not I have 
 forgotten ; I know that by the end of that summer I could 
 sketch after a fashion and had rudimentary ideas on the 
 handling of color. Then, queerly enough, I was ashamed 
 of my accomplishment. I regarded art as effeminate, and 
 not until I had been two years at college did I bring the 
 fruits of this ambition to light. 
 
 No doubt I had an infinity of other ambitions at one 
 time or another. I have faint memories of desiring to be 
 a bucko mate on a whaler; a stock broker; a clerk in 
 the Whitehaven bank ; king of a savage tribe on a remote 
 and indefinite island; a lighthouse keeper and lastly a 
 sheep tender in Australia. These ambitions were all alike 
 in that not one of them had a connection with reality. 
 And they were all ambitions, all connected with the fu- 
 ture. My mind seems to have taken that bent. 
 
 Interwoven through all these futures ran two figures 
 beside myself. There was Dick Stowell, of course. And 
 another. For, quite incidentally, I had fallen in love. 
 
 Measured by standards of perfection I suppose that 
 Bess was far from beautiful at that time, just a snub 
 nosed little girl with tight-twisted braids down her back 
 and bright china blue eyes. In fact, judging the matter 
 as calmly as I may, I doubt whether she could have ever 
 been called beautiful. I have my doubts of the potency 
 of mere physical beauty as an attractive force. Her 
 hair was yellow, then, although later it darkened through 
 shades of gold and red to a chestnut full of deep golden 
 shadows. But even then her brows and lashes were dark, 
 in contrast to her eyes, and she had a trick of smiling 
 in a one sided fashion which lingers still in my memory. 
 
 Her father was one of the great American army of 
 drifters, always seeing great possibilities in the future 
 and always blind to the advantages at hand. He was
 
 FLOOD TIDE 37 
 
 essentially a nomad, eternally lured by the will o' the wisp 
 of fortune to new fields whose sole beauty was the glamor 
 cast by distance. Why he came to Whitehaven I cannot 
 imagine; perhaps because it was a new place and, to his 
 mind, full of possibilities. He was much disliked, I imag- 
 ine, because of the disparaging way he had of contrasting 
 Whitehaven to other towns in which he had lived. Even 
 in Whitehaven he could not be contented, but was con- 
 tinually moving from one house to another. 
 
 He finally settled in a house diagonally across the 
 street from ours, a most undesirable house with a pinched 
 back yard and a shabby front. Alden planned additions 
 which he would make when his ship came in, and in time 
 persuaded himself that it was quite a comfortable dwell- 
 ing. Out of the way, you know, and the drainage prob- 
 lem was rather a bother, but still not so bad for a tem- 
 porary place. 
 
 He was forever planning vast things and invariably 
 leaving them in a half completed state. I remember that 
 one night he stopped my father and me as we came home 
 from the store and asked my father's opinion on a crazy 
 contraption which he had built in the garden beside the 
 house. 
 
 "What do you think of it?" he asked, rather doubt- 
 fully but still hopefully. 
 
 My father surveyed it critically. "What is it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "A garden seat." 
 
 "I see." My father forebore criticism. "Going to 
 paint it?" 
 
 "Do you think that would help? It does look rather 
 unfinished not as I planned it, exactly. But then, a 
 garden seat ought to be sort of rough and unfinished." 
 Alden leaned over and drove another nail in the midst 
 of an already large cluster. The seat swayed and creaked 
 as he drove it home; he steadied it with his knee and 
 swore heartily as he hammered.
 
 38 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "It's that damn wood," he explained, "it won't cut 
 straight won't hold nails no good anyway." 
 
 We went on, my father chuckling to himself. I think 
 that he enjoyed Alden immensely. 
 
 Alden went to Alaska during the rush of '98, and the 
 last letter they had from him was written as he was set- 
 ting out to cross Chilkoot. It was always supposed that 
 he died there, although for a long time after that Eliza- 
 beth's mother talked of "when Alf comes home." Later 
 this became "if Alf comes home," and later still "if he 
 had come home." She had imbibed some measure of his 
 witless optimism, although I have always thought that 
 she must have recognized Alden's inherent worthlessness 
 and set her foot down on wandering further than White- 
 haven. 
 
 At one time Stowell was sick with measles or some 
 other of the ailments which his family shared unselfishly, 
 and I fell from man's estate and played house with Bess 
 in the ramshackle henhouse which Dick and I had fitted up 
 as our retreat from the world. She criticized our domes- 
 tic arrangements unsparingly and to turn her attack I 
 told her of our latest scheme. Stowell and I were going 
 cattle farming in the Argentine, as we had planned it 
 one of the few plans we ever agreed upon. Perhaps we 
 agreed in this case because it satisfied both my roman- 
 ticism and Dick's practically. Bess listened, enthralled, 
 egging me on with questions and admiration until I had 
 told her our whole plan, to which Dick and I had sworn 
 eternal secrecy. 
 
 "My father makes plans like that," she said, when I 
 stopped for lack of further imagination, "but something 
 always happens. But he's always going to invent some- 
 thing, or sell something; he never planned anything as 
 nice as that." 
 
 I swelled my chest at the compliment and intimated
 
 FLOOD TIDE 89 
 
 that I could imagine better things than that with one 
 hand tied behind me. 
 
 "And then you'll make a lot of money, and come back 
 and we'll go to New York to live," she went on, taking 
 my dream fabric and using it for her own ends before 
 I could explain that she didn't come in on this plan. 
 "You will make a lot of money, won't you, for me?" 
 
 I resisted. This was carrying the thing too far; I had 
 imagined nothing beyond lassoing long-horns and riding 
 over the pampas on a "fleet mustang." But she smiled 
 at me, with one eyebrow lifted in that bewitching fash- 
 ion, and I grudgingly admitted her to the plan, wonder- 
 ing what Dick would have to say about it. But I still 
 resisted on a minor point; her insistence on "lots of 
 money" rather grated on me. 
 
 "But my father says that you can't get along with- 
 out it," she remonstrated, wide-eyed. "Of course you 
 want to make money; that's what everybody wants." 
 
 I put my finger on an inconsistency; she admitted that 
 I was smarter than her father and yet she quoted him 
 as a final authority on worldly success. But what is con- 
 sistency to a woman? 
 
 "Oh, I only meant in making plans ; my father knows 
 a lot more than you do," she said scornfully. "Besides, 
 unless you come home with money I won't marry you." 
 
 I avowed my intention of never marrying and then 
 she smiled at me again. 
 
 My reward for forswearing my ideals of life were a 
 soft-breathed sigh of satisfaction and a kiss which some- 
 how or other missed its mark and slid off the end of her 
 nose into space. After she had gone I sat with my head 
 in my hands and considered what Dick would say to this 
 radical change in our plans. I needn't have worried, for 
 the next day Bess refused to treat me as an accepted 
 lover, and when Dick came back to school I had resolved 
 to become a begging friar and had shut women out of 
 my life forever.
 
 40 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I soon recovered from my desire to take monastic 
 vows, however, for Bess relented, after putting me in my 
 place, and I became her accepted though clandestine 
 lover. We both had a wholesome fear of the guying of 
 our schoolmates and our few love passages were confined 
 to times away from school. Our Saturday trips to the 
 Island lost much of their savor; of course Bess couldn't 
 go and I couldn't very well talk to Dick about her. 
 
 She interfered most persistently in both the practical 
 and the idealistic sides of my existence. My plans for 
 the future gradually took on new aspects ; it became neces- 
 sary to include her in some way or other and that made 
 planning harder. She broke in on the other side of my 
 existence also, a fact which caused me to wrangle with 
 Dick and dig up reasons for my wandering interests. 
 
 Consumed with an intense desire to be near her, I 
 dragged Dick off to town meetings and sat through muzzy 
 and interminable debates in the hope of getting a stray 
 glance from her. Her father had gone into politics soon 
 after his arrival in town and had become a speaker of the 
 florid, flag-waving type; I think that Mrs. Alden derived 
 a good deal of pleasure from sitting in the gallery while 
 he swayed public opinion on the floor beneath. For a 
 time my veering ambition swung in this direction; I pic- 
 tured myself in the halls of Congress no small village 
 matters for me with Bess in the gallery and my remarks 
 punctuated by loud and prolonged applause and breath- 
 less attention. 
 
 There was a good deal of fun at town meetings too 
 much fun and too little business, sometimes. Almost 
 every one of the self-constituted leaders of opinion had 
 his special hobby and took every conceivable opportunity 
 to drag it into the debate until the tap of the Modera- 
 tor's gavel brought him down from the heights of the 
 empyrean. I remember that the reading of the article
 
 FLOOD TIDE 41 
 
 "To see if the town will appropriate the sum of two thou- 
 sand dollars for street repairs" was always the signal for 
 John Burnham to rise and tell of the fine roads he had 
 seen in Holland and France and move that the word 
 "twenty" be substituted for "two." It never was, by the 
 way, until the coming of the bicycle and later the auto- 
 mobile made good roads a necessity rather than a luxury. 
 Then there was old Mr. Hichborn, who lost no chance to 
 spit on his hands and wave the bloody shirt; his method 
 of debate was to stride up and down before the plat- 
 form and shake his fist in his opponents' faces. Dick and 
 I were present on that glorious night when Joe Beeker, 
 whose "mainmast wasn't stayed just so," according to 
 Cap'n Waldron, rose in meeting and shouted "Mr. Muddy- 
 water!" and was cast forth after a long and bloody con- 
 flict. 
 
 In one way or another Dick has affected me in a good 
 many ways, so much so that I am puzzled sometimes to 
 decide just what part of my actions are due to myself 
 and what part to his influence, but I think that in getting 
 him interested in the conduct of government I have made 
 the score nearly even. As the first glamor of seeing the 
 wheels grind out their grist wore off he became vastly 
 critical and developed theories of his own. 
 
 There were times, of course, when I made an arrant 
 fool of myself, as all lovers do. One case in particular 
 obtrudes itself on my memory; I give it to you with a 
 great deal of hesitation, for I am heartily ashamed of 
 myself. The thing that hurts about this particular mem- 
 ory is not that I behaved abominably but the fact that I 
 was blamed instead of praised by the object of my de- 
 votion. 
 
 Through some piece of deviltry Bess had fallen out 
 with authority and was condemned to be kept after school 
 for a week. This in itself was no unusual circumstance; 
 I myself suffered that punishment with great regularity. 
 But on the third day of her incarceration I had been
 
 42 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "kept after" that day, too I passed the door of her 
 school-room and heard her crying. To this day I re- 
 member the wave of hot rebellion against all authority 
 which submerged my soul as I peered through the door 
 and saw Bess bowed over her desk, her shoulders shaken 
 by sobs. Her teacher, far from being moved by her 
 manifestation's of repentance, sat at her desk and hummed 
 a tune and light-heartedly read a yellow backed novel. I 
 saw red for a moment and stole away filled with an over- 
 powering thirst for revenge. 
 
 Where I got my ammunition I have forgotten; prob- 
 ably at the store. That part of the adventure has faded 
 from my memory; I remember only that I waited in the 
 early autumn dusk behind a carriage shed in Slater's 
 Lane Bess's teacher went home that way with my pock- 
 ets filled with eggs, shivering in the cold wind and making 
 a futile effort to keep alive the hot flame of rancor. De- 
 spite my efforts the flame flickered and died down and 
 went out entirely as her teacher and another from a lower 
 grade approached along the narrow alley ; she had treated 
 me well the year before, when I had been in her class, 
 and I was astonished to find myself looking at her with 
 affection. I crouched low behind the stone wall; they 
 were talking cheerfully, unaware that a desperate man 
 lurked near them. But as they passed the flame leaped 
 up again. 
 
 "But that Alden girl!" floated back to me, "I simply 
 can't do a thing with her !" 
 
 Her companion made commiserating noises. 
 
 "You bet you can't !" I thought darkly. "You let her 
 alone." 
 
 "Sometimes she's a perfect little devil, and at other " 
 
 I set my teeth and flung my first egg; it sped between 
 them and plopped against the side of Morgan's barn; 
 I reached hastily for another, fumbled, dropped it 
 and bolted into the darkness of the carriage shed. 
 I heard startled exclamations and slow returning foot-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 43 
 
 steps as I burrowed in the dust under a low-bodied sleigh. 
 
 "Some one must have thrown it," I heard ; then there 
 was a silence during which I felt millions of eyes boring 
 into the dimness of the shed. 
 
 "I see you; you'd better come out here." 
 
 I quivered, consoled myself with the reflection that it 
 was manifestly impossible for them to see me through 
 two inches of dusty plank, stifled a sneeze and lay quiet. 
 
 "It was probably one of those Portuguese children," 
 I heard a low whisper. 
 
 I thanked Heaven for the Portuguese. There was a 
 tribe of these black eyed youngsters down behind the fish 
 houses, incorrigible evaders of restraint and fervent haters 
 of everything connected with school. 
 
 "Perhaps," came the doubtful answer. "But my dear! 
 It might have hit us !" 
 
 "My new coat, too !" 
 
 "They may have more * 
 
 The sounds of a hasty retreat came to me. They paused 
 and inspected the place on the barn where my hasty shot 
 had found its billet, then went on. I crept out, looked 
 after them darkly and shook my fist and then, at a 
 sudden thought which popped into my mind, fled inglor- 
 iously. They would return, accompanied by Tibbets the 
 cop; they would surely take out a warrant and have the 
 town searched for the offender. I would leave school, I 
 concluded, as I sped home by devious ways, stow away 
 on a vessel in the harbor and thus avoid capture. 
 
 But before I left Whitehaven forever I must tell Bess ; 
 she would know the truth eventually, of course, but I 
 thought it better to tell her myself. I was surprised to 
 find my action strongly condemned. 
 
 "That was horrid!" was her comment. And I had ex- 
 pected praise! I had a bitter feeling that the whole 
 world was against me. 
 
 "But don't you hate her?" I stumbled. 
 
 "Why should I?" She seemed perplexed.
 
 44 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "I saw you crying " I hesitated. 
 
 She flamed forth in wrath. "That isn't your business 
 at all." 
 
 "But I thought " I stopped, warned by a dan- 
 gerous look in her eye. 
 
 Then: "Did you hit her?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 "No such ,luck." I shoved my hands gloomily in my 
 pockets, found the remaining eggs, and reflected that at 
 least I shouldn't starve to death when I stowed away. 
 
 Strangely enough she seemed disappointed. I was 
 blamed for throwing the egg and then blamed for not 
 throwing it straight. It was a rotten world. Perhaps 
 later, when I came back disguised with a beard, she would 
 know better. 
 
 I started away slowly. Bess called me back, leaning 
 over the railing of the porch, a faint white figure in the 
 dusk. 
 
 "Promise me you'll never do anything like that again," 
 she commanded in a low voice. 
 
 I promised, sulkily enough. Nothing seemed to matter 
 very much. 
 
 "Because if you do" she swooped down and some- 
 thing warm and soft brushed my cheek "I'll never kiss 
 you again." 
 
 A flutter of short skirts, a twinkle of slim legs, and the 
 door slammed behind her. She approved, she disap- 
 proved ; she had blamed me and then kissed me. I stood 
 gawking at the closed door with my mouth open. 
 
 Then I went home, gloomily silent at one moment and 
 at the next whistling and reconsidering my intention of 
 fleeing. I was immensely puzzled. We men often go 
 home in that state of mind. 
 
 I had queer ideas then as I have now. One of these 
 queer ideas was that people were open to reason, that if
 
 FLOOD TIDE 45 
 
 something better than the existing state of affairs were 
 shown them they would at once abandon the old and 
 welcome the new. This was the first of my disillusion- 
 ments. For I evolved a plan for revolutionizing White- 
 haven's commercial life and was laughed at for my pains. 
 I was not the first who had gone out clad in fresh ideas 
 from head to foot and come home in a metaphorical barrel, 
 but that didn't help my injured feelings in the slightest. 
 
 How I came to conceive this wild, chimerical idea I 
 don't know; perhaps its seed was some chance remark 
 caught from the group about the stove in the store ; per- 
 haps I caught it from my father. I must have nursed 
 my plan for a long time before I confided it to my father 
 and got his permission to try it out; I think that I had 
 some lurking doubts about its practical application. It 
 was so simple that surely some one must have thought 
 of it before. But as I matured the idea I lost this feeling 
 of distrust and when I finally told my father of it doubt 
 had been supplanted by unqualified belief. 
 
 This scheme of mine was nothing less than a consolida- 
 tion of the three Whitehaven stores ; not a consolidation, 
 exactly, but a plan for cooperative buying. As it was 
 then, each one of the stores bought from a different whole- 
 sale house in Boston; our goods came from Hatherly's, 
 the Patch Brothers favored Durrel and Whiting, and 
 Adams and Bridges bought their goods from some smaller 
 concern, either Joslin or the Kingsley Company, I have 
 forgotten which. As a result of this all three stores suf- 
 fered. I know that we very seldom split our orders and 
 it was the same with the others. Our orders were never 
 large and as a result we obtained poor rates and almost 
 no discounts at all. Splitting orders would make it 
 worse. But and here was the germ of my plan increas- 
 ing our orders would secure us better terms. And we 
 couldn't very well increase our orders as it was then; we 
 lacked the storage space, for one thing. 
 
 The only solution, of course, was for the three stores
 
 46 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 to pool their buying, order large lots and get the best 
 discounts possible. 
 
 I told my father about it one night, when I had finally 
 got it all clearly fixed in my mind. My idea was that all 
 three stores should join in dealing with the wholesale 
 houses, doing their buying together. This would in no 
 way interfere with competition I avoided that rock 
 but it would surely give us all an advantage over the 
 wholesale men. 
 
 "You see how it would save money?" I concluded. "This 
 piecemeal buying plays directly into their hands. You 
 can't split your orders because then it wouldn't be worth 
 their time to bother and Hatherly might shut down 
 on your line of credit. . . . Don't you think it's a good 
 scheme?" 
 
 He considered for a moment, whistling softly to him- 
 self. Finally he nodded. "Yes, it's a mighty good 
 scheme," he admitted. "But " 
 
 Again he considered, shook his head, smiled to himself 
 and then gave my idea his unqualified approval. 
 
 "You're right, from first to last," he said. "It would 
 save us money and so it would for Adams and Frank 
 Patch. Have you seen them yet?" 
 
 I hadn't considered the actual working out of my plan 
 and this direct question rather startled me. 
 
 "No?" queried my father. "Well, I'll go in with you; 
 now you go around and rope them in." 
 
 I hesitated. "See them myself?" 
 
 "Sure," he said in surprise. "It's your plan, you know." 
 
 So I started out, that same night, to see old Mr. Adams 
 and Frank Patch; started out to revolutionize commerce 
 with an idea and boundless enthusiasm. I have laughed 
 since at the recollection of that quixotic excursion, but 
 I didn't laugh then; I was sixteen and as deadly serious 
 as only youth can be. 
 
 Old Mr. Adams listened to me coldly as I told him 
 my plan, looked at me over his spectacles, looked at me
 
 FLOOD TIDE 47 
 
 under his spectacles and refused to have anything to 
 do with it. 
 
 "You tell your father," he said severely, turning again 
 to his paper, "that if he wants my help he can come and 
 ask for it himself." 
 
 "But this is my own idea," I protested. 
 
 He emerged from behind his paper barricade and glared 
 at me. "He knows about it, doesn't he?" 
 
 "I went to him first, of course." 
 
 "Then he's back of it." Again the barricade went up. 
 "But you can't catch John K. Adams with that kind of 
 salt; he's too old a bird." 
 
 I tiptoed out feeling that I was lucky to escape so 
 easily. 
 
 I came off rather worse with Frank Patch. He misun- 
 derstood me from the first, thought that I was trying to 
 induce him to abandon Durrel and Whiting, and waxed 
 purple and indignant. 
 
 "No, sir!" he declared. "I've known Durrel since he 
 warn't no taller'n you and hadn't no more sense neither; 
 he's good enough for me and always will be." 
 
 I went off, leaving him snorting and thrashing about, 
 and sneaked home through back alleys. 
 
 "Well, son, when do we start?" my father asked cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 "I guess we don't start at all." I told him how my 
 plan had been received. "They didn't understand; they 
 wouldn't let me explain; they I don't see anything 
 laughable about it." 
 
 My father straightened up and wiped his eyes. "I'm 
 not laughing at you, nor at your plans ; they're both 
 all right. But to try such a thing on John Adams and 
 that suspicious old hard-shell of a Patch!" 
 
 "I don't just see " I began, but he waved me down. 
 
 "One time," he said dreamily, "when I was a boy run- 
 ning around town, somebody gave me a knife for a birth- 
 day present knife with a big shiny blade, regular toad-
 
 48 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 sticker. And of course I started out to carve me a boat 
 just as you used to. But and mark this, son in- 
 stead of picking out a nice soft piece of pine I took a 
 big hunk of iron-wood that some one of the Coffins had 
 brought home from the Indies beautiful piece of wood 
 it was, all crinkly-grained, but nothing was too good for 
 the new knife. Well, I hacked away at that wood for 
 nearly a week, dulled the knife, broke the point of the 
 blade, got blisters on my hands and at the end was no 
 further along than when I started. Guess I'd be hacking 
 away yet if my father hadn't come out in the woodshed 
 one day while I was sweating away over it. He looked 
 at the wood and then at my hands and then laughed so 
 he had to sit down on the chopping block. 'Always suit 
 your tool to your wood, son, always suit your tool to 
 your wood,' he told me. I've never forgotten it." 
 
 And neither have I. 
 
 Later, while I was still in high school, we added a de- 
 livery team to our equipment. This brought the three 
 stores in closer competition; where previously they had 
 been isolated and in a measure ignoring the existence 
 of the others they were now brought into direct conflict. 
 Ours was the first delivery team in town; although the 
 others scoffed at first and then followed our lead we had 
 the advantage of them. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Patch and old Adams regretted that they 
 hadn't given my idea a trial, after all. I know that I 
 consoled myself with the thought that the world seemed 
 to consider whiskers and wisdom as synonymous. Wait 
 till I sprouted the outward manifestations of sagacity 
 and they would see. 
 
 And, waiting, I absorbed wisdom from the "Fire Wor- 
 shipers." This was my father's name for the tribunal 
 about the rusty iron stove in the store, a self constituted 
 court of high decision on all matters. They discussed 
 everything with greater or less wisdom, conducting va- 
 grant and interminable debates on politics, methods of
 
 FLOOD TIDE 49 
 
 rigging, religion, genealogy and the comparative merits of 
 chanties and shore songs. I give you fragmentary sam- 
 ples. 
 
 "Married a Baker from up the shore road. Nephew to 
 old Sam Baker that owned the Arabella. Worthless cuss." 
 
 "Summer people is dogfishes. And anybody that stands 
 up for them is a dum-head." (This, I recall, upon the 
 coming of Mr. Bradford, who built the first summer place 
 on the Point.) 
 
 "I never saw a whaler yet with as much gimp in him 
 as a tame sheep." 
 
 " 'Put that in your pipe and smoke it,' says I. And 
 he never let a yip out of him for the rest of the voyage." 
 
 Quite frequently these debates were punctuated by ref- 
 erences to that chief character of New England mythol- 
 ogy, the omniscient and elusive Feller. 
 
 "They'll skin you without you nail your hide to your 
 bones, as the Feller says," Cap'n Billy Waldron would 
 declaim. And Eben Curtis, High Priest of the Established 
 Order, would counter by quoting the Feller to exactly 
 opposite intent. Or Jim Knowles, that reincarnation of 
 Ecclesiastes, that quotation from Khayyam, would jingle 
 the keys in his pocket mournfully and mediate between 
 the two. 
 
 "Well, so far as I can see you're both right," he would 
 say. "If the Republicans get in it'll be the damnation 
 ruination of the country, as Eben says ; and if the Dem- 
 ocrats get their clutches on the windpipe of Prosperity 
 there'll be women and children crying for bread in the 
 streets of Whitehaven, as Cap'n Billy has pointed out. 
 We're going on the rocks, anyway, with nobody at the 
 helium, as the Feller says." 
 
 I must have listened to many hundreds such arguments 
 at one time or another. I remember the occasional 
 jingle of sleigh bells outside; the glare of the snow, re- 
 flected on the beamed ceiling; the dusky revolving shad- 
 ows of the passersby ; the eddying veils of tobacco smoke
 
 50 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 over the field of combat. But I also remember that my 
 part was solely that of listener. I listened, thought, 
 evolved my own ideas, and ended by keeping them to my- 
 self. The world was unappreciative. 
 
 VI 
 
 I was eighteen before I discovered that others beside 
 myself planned futures. Dick, the unimaginative, merely 
 tolerated my flights of fancy; Elizabeth listened and 
 forebore comment, although I was secretly convinced that 
 she envied and admired. But as for planning for herself 
 had the wooden eagle figurehead of the Mary Hawes 
 flapped its wings and aspired to flight my surprise could 
 scarcely have been greater. Ambition, in my mind, was 
 a manly attribute, something on the line of chewing to- 
 bacco and shaving. Girls never thought of such things. 
 
 It was in the June of my senior year in school. I had 
 found Bess and Hilda Stowell in a little wind-made cup 
 atop of one of the highest dunes found them acciden- 
 tally, of course. I would have much preferred to have 
 gone swimming over in the marsh, where the water was 
 warmer and bathing suits were unknown, but I convinced 
 myself that I was getting rather old for that sort of 
 thing and that it was too dirty over there and an in- 
 finite number of reasons beside the real one that I had seen 
 Bess leave the house dressed for swimming and knew that 
 I would find her at the beach. It is easy to deceive one- 
 self at eighteen. I found them and was secretly disap- 
 pointed at finding Hilda. 
 
 We lay at length among the grasses on the western 
 slope of the dune, peering over the edge and basking in 
 the warm afternoon sun ; that is, Bess and I did the bask- 
 ing and Hilda sat between us under a sunshade and busied 
 herself over some mysterious piece of embroidery. Hilda 
 was one of Dick's sisters ; she was fully four years older 
 than either Bess or myself, engaged to be married and
 
 FLOOD TIDE 51 
 
 disposed to consider us very small children indeed. "Vic- 
 torian" scarcely describes Hilda I dislike the term, 
 for at best it is but an importation. Hilda really be- 
 longed to the times before the war the Civil War when 
 little girls wore pantelettes and polite conversation was 
 confined to tatting and jam recipes instead of straying 
 to uncomfortable subjects such as woman's place in the 
 general scheme of things. I think she was secretly shocked 
 at the amount of flesh displayed by my abbreviated at- 
 tire, for I remember that she shifted the sunshade and 
 spoke to me from ambush. Bess, with her slim legs thrust 
 out from beneath the short skirt of her bathing suit, must 
 have been another source of vexation to Hilda. She was 
 eternally being shocked at something. 
 
 Hilda started the wrangle, I think, with an ill-judged 
 comment on college. Dick and I were going together in 
 the fall, I because I planned to be a doctor or surgeon, 
 I've forgotten which, and Dick simply because he wanted 
 to go. . . . Neither of us were "sent" to college ; we both 
 "went." Perhaps the distinction as I make it is scarcely 
 a clear one, but in my mind college men are divided in two 
 great classes those who go and those who are sent. 
 
 "I think it's all foolishness," asserted Hilda. "It would 
 be different if he knew what he was going to be, but he 
 doesn't know. Doctors need Latin and and all that; 
 so do druggists and lawyers. But he says he isn't going 
 to be a doctor or a lawyer or a druggist." 
 
 "I'm not exactly sure what I'll be," I reminded her. 
 
 "You're both alike," affirmed Hilda placidly. Hers was 
 the kind of mind which crystallizes at an early age; hav- 
 ing one's future unsettled was not only negligent but 
 criminal, in her eyes. 
 
 "It's foolish," she reiterated. "As though you couldn't 
 choose just as well now!" 
 
 Bess moved restlessly on the other side of the intrud- 
 ing sunshade. "You're envious," she asserted, "you'd like 
 to go too."
 
 52 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Hilda was stung to indignant denial of envy. 
 
 "Well, I should," said Bess, "and I will, too." 
 
 "After you graduate?" I asked, pricking up my ears 
 at the news. Bess still had another year in high school. 
 
 Bess was uncertain. "Perhaps," she admitted, "and 
 perhaps not until the year after that. I'm not sure." 
 
 She squirmed deeper into the sand and sent little ava- 
 lanches down the sloping face of the dune. This refer- 
 ence to uncertainty bordered on the financial and we 
 avoided it. Probably Mr. Alden had some grandiose plan, 
 as usual. 
 
 "I'm not fooling," she went on, as Hilda laughed in an 
 irritating fashion. "I'm not going to stay around here 
 after I get through school. You wouldn't want to, would 
 you?" She appealed to me. 
 
 "Not on your life," I answered warmly. "But it's 
 different with you. You see " I hesitated. 
 
 "I'm a girl and ought to be content to stay at home 
 and play rag dolls," she completed the sentence for me. 
 "Well, I'm not. I want to get away and do things just 
 as much as you do." 
 
 "But what college?" demanded the practical Hilda. 
 "You don't mean Normal School, do you?" 
 
 "And teach grubby little third grade kids all my life?" 
 answered Bess with a sniff of disdain. "I mean a regular 
 college Vassar, perhaps, or Smith or Wellesley. I don't 
 know which." 
 
 Poor Bess ! Alden's last and most magnificent ven- 
 ture, the Klondike trip, came at the time when she would 
 have gone to college, and when the tide of fortune began 
 to show a gentle flow in her mother's direction Bess had 
 been four years and more out of school and had given up 
 her ambitions. I wonder but no matter. 
 
 Then Hilda began that most damnable form of torture, 
 pinning a vaguely ambitious mind down to concrete ex- 
 pressions. 
 
 "And what would you do after college?" she asked,
 
 FLOOD TIDE 53 
 
 greatly engrossed in her sewing. "Teach, perhaps? I 
 forgot; you said that you didn't like teaching. What, 
 then?" 
 
 "Music?" she suggested, as Bess failed to answer. She 
 knew as well as I that Bess hated music. 
 
 "No," Bess hesitated. "Something" 
 
 "Something " encouraged Hilda, with a hint of 
 mimicry in her voice. 
 
 Bess sulked at being driven into a corner. 
 
 "You'll see," she prophesied darkly. 
 
 "You might be a nurse," suggested Hilda helpfully. 
 
 I entertained a fleeting image of Bess, always restless, 
 being tied down to some querulous old invalid, and in 
 spite of myself I laughed. "A swell nurse you'd make," 
 I said, "and besides, you don't learn that at college." 
 
 Hilda went on with her list. "There's stenography 
 or you might try telephone operating. No? I'm afraid 
 that a college education wouldn't help you much in either 
 of those. But what would it help you in?" 
 
 Bess muttered something unintelligible I think that 
 she swore. Certainly the circumstances justified profan- 
 ity. Hilda was encouraged to add another profession, 
 thinking perhaps to crown her list of impossibilities with 
 a final absurdity. 
 
 "You might go on the stage," she suggested. 
 
 If she expected an indignant denial she was greatly 
 disappointed. 
 
 "How did you guess?" asked Bess, surprised and con- 
 fused just a trifle too much surprised and confused. 
 Under an arc of the sunshade I saw her eyes raised to 
 Hilda's in simulated amazement. 
 
 Hilda looked down on her, half doubting and half 
 convinced. 
 
 "You don't mean it," she concluded. 
 
 "But I do really," answered Bess. She sat up, cross 
 legged, and chanted the refrain of one of the popular 
 songs of that day ; something to the effect that some-
 
 54 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 body had better keep his eye on tricky little Sarah. She 
 swung to and fro as she sang; Hilda watched her, fasci- 
 nated. 
 
 "But Bess," she exclaimed, "I was only fooling ] 
 didn't mean you wouldn't really be an actress, would 
 you?" There was a note of horror in her voice. 
 
 "Uh huh," 'nodded Bess, her eyes fixed on the distant 
 horizon. "I think it would be great; flowers applause 
 curtain calls " Her voice trailed off into visions. 
 
 "Do you think that I want to stay in this poky hole 
 all my life?" she added after a moment. 
 
 That brought us both down on her. In my soul I 
 knew that Bess was right ; Whitehaven was a "poky hole." 
 But Hilda and I were natives and Bess wasn't; it was 
 all right for a native to criticize the town but criticism 
 from an outsider was another matter. And in White- 
 haven all people were outsiders until they had at least 
 one generation in the graveyard. 
 
 It was an inconclusive and unsatisfactory wrangle; we 
 all three fought about different things. I found trouble 
 in getting in a word here and there and the two girls 
 shifted ground and changed their base of attack with 
 bewildering rapidity. Bess reverted to the question of go- 
 ing to college. Hilda made the mistake of holding up 
 her own life as a model and almost cried as Bess skillfully 
 took prop after prop from under her and left her not a 
 leg to stand on. I gave up my part of the discussion; 
 a flock of shore birds came wheeling to the beach below, 
 following the retreating waves in rhythmic dance as I 
 watched. I searched about for pebbles to flip at them, 
 paying little attention to the battle on the other side of 
 the sun shade. 
 
 It finally ended, as most feminine arguments do, by 
 both generously admitting that the other was right, while 
 at the same time each brought in a maze of qualifying 
 clauses which quite obscured the main issues. 
 
 They broke off, finally, and Bess and I went down for
 
 FLOOD TIDE 55 
 
 a final dip before going home. I was puzzled more than 
 a little, and as we waded out dripping I asked a question 
 which had perplexed me. 
 
 "You didn't really mean that?" I asked. 
 
 Bess bent over to wring out her scanty skirt. 
 
 "Mean what?" 
 
 "About going on the stage." 
 
 "No, I didn't," she said frankly. "I'd like to, but I'm 
 not good looking enough and I can't sing. And my folks 
 wouldn't let me. But I had to say something, didn't I?" 
 
 "It was a mean trick to try to pin you down like that," 
 I agreed. 
 
 As we went up the beach together she turned and 
 waved back at Hilda. "I could have scratched her," she 
 said in a spiteful little burst. 
 
 "I don't know what I want to do," she said presently, 
 "any more than you know. Something but what? If 
 I was a boy father could get me an appointment to An- 
 napolis. That's out of the question, of course. . . . Be- 
 ing a girl isn't much fun." 
 
 VII 
 
 The summer after our graduation from high school 
 was spent in much the same manner as other summers 
 Dick away with the fleet and I in the store. The Mary 
 Hawes came home only once, and then it was a week day 
 and I had only an hour or two with Dick. I fitted up the 
 Shadow anew, made leather cushions for the cockpit, and 
 Bess and I went sailing along the coast and about the 
 harbor nearly every Sunday. A sleepy, quiet summer, 
 and yet one of the happiest of my remembrances. 
 
 Dick came home a few days before college opened. It 
 was at his suggestion, I think, that we sailed down to the 
 Island on the day before our departure for college. It 
 was our last trip to Buck's Island, although neither of 
 us thought of it in that light as we set out.
 
 56 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 It was one of those cool, clear September days, when 
 brown cheeked Summer decks herself in goldenrod and 
 makes the most of her last few days, warned by the first 
 flaming maple leaves that autumn is near. We sailed in 
 the early morning; there was scarcely enough wind to 
 fill the Shadow's sails, not enough to ripple the long 
 smooth swells. Dick was at the helm a tribute to his 
 superior seamanship and he steered inshore as close as 
 he dared, following each dip and undulation of the coast 
 instead of standing straight across for the Island as we 
 usually did. As we slid along in the crisp sunshine each 
 point and inlet brought back some memory ; in a way our 
 boyhood passed in review before us as we went along. 
 
 Here we had landed to pick blueberries, and fled in 
 terror from what we believed to be a bear but which proved 
 to be one of Haskell's sheep, browsing in the underbrush. 
 A glimpse of white birch trunks recalled that here we had 
 stripped the bark for shingling the roof of the cabin. 
 Behind that bluff we had snared rabbits, and high on that 
 cliff was a shallow cave whence we had routed an entirely 
 imaginary band of pirates with great glory to ourselves. 
 We grew tenderly reminiscent over all these boyhood 
 memories, looking back on them through the mists of an- 
 tiquity some of them were almost six or eight years 
 distant and almost wished ourselves boys again. Dick 
 was nineteen and I was some two months younger. 
 
 It was noon when we arrived at the Island and sailed 
 into the little harbor. We landed, brought our grub 
 ashore, dislodged the rabbits which had preempted our 
 hut, and kindled a rousing fire in the fireplace. After 
 dinner we climbed the cliffs above the cabin and sat in our 
 old nook under the pine tree, with the sea and the rock- 
 fringed coast at our feet. Three barges, riding high and 
 southward bound, drew slowly along the taut line of the 
 horizon in the wake of a tug ; we watched them and talked 
 intermittently of many things and finally fell silent in 
 the drowsy afternoon hush, with only the low swish of the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 57 
 
 waves and the shrill cries of the wheeling gulls to break 
 our thoughts. 
 
 Dick broke the golden charm. 
 
 "Great, isn't it? Sea sunshine we're going to miss 
 this, Jack." 
 
 He yawned, rolled over and sat up. 
 
 "Gee, I feel wise, and all-powerful and and hungry. 
 Run down and get me a piece of that pie we had left over, 
 will you?" 
 
 "Pie?" I said drowsily. "I hate the word, as I hate 
 work, all exercise and thee. Get it yourself." 
 
 We grappled and scuffled about in a fierce combat on 
 the pine needles. Dick finally sat on my chest and pro- 
 ceeded to give me a "barber shave," which is* a method 
 of rubbing the short hairs at the back of the neck in a 
 manner calculated to provoke tears. 
 
 "Going to get that pie?" he paused to ask. 
 
 "I will and eat it, too." 
 
 We raced down to the hut, devoured the remnants of 
 the pie and then went swimming in the cove. All after- 
 noon we swam about, dove off the rocks and built sand 
 forts on the tiny beach. We laid vast systems of water- 
 works, using the hollow stems of kelp for pipes, dug har- 
 bors and canals, and in general acted as though we were 
 only boys, instead of men ready to enter college. The 
 afternoon wore on and the evening chill was in the &ir as 
 we dressed and went up the winding path to the cabin and 
 supper. We ate a silent meal and packed our stuff for 
 the trip home. 
 
 "Young Claflin asked me for the key last week," I said 
 as we took a last look around. "He and the other kids 
 came down in that old dory they patched up. Shall I 
 give it to him?" 
 
 "They'll break in if you don't, I suppose," answered 
 Dick. "And yet " 
 
 He stopped. Perhaps he felt as I did ; we all welcome
 
 58 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 new things and yet dislike to abandon the old. Our eyes 
 met ; the same thought was in both our minds. 
 
 "And they'd have the fun of building another," he said 
 soberly. "That was half the fun, anyway." 
 
 "Go ahead," I said, and went down the path to the 
 Shadow, our pots and pans jangling in a blanket on my 
 back. I stowed them in the bow, pushed off until the 
 Shadow was nearly afloat, and sat down to wait for Dick. 
 Five minutes ten minutes, and he came silently across 
 the narrow beach. He nodded in answer to my question- 
 ing look, then shoved off and sprang into the stern. We 
 poled out of the little harbor, caught the evening breeze 
 and stood off in the twilight for home. 
 
 From the seaward side the amphitheater where the cabin 
 stood was hidden ; the Island loomed a black, pine-topped 
 mass against the faint silver-gray of the sea. Then as 
 we watched, there was a pulse of red against the velvet 
 dusk of the eastern sky. Blackness again, more intense for 
 the contrast. A second throb of red, then a steady mount- 
 ing orange glow which streamed silently upward through 
 the evening calm. The pines stood silhouetted against the 
 glare, flat figures of black; a faint wavering path of red 
 spread out over the ripples toward us, our sail took on a 
 faint morning glow of rose as the flames spread and 
 mounted. We watched in silence as the Shadow plowed 
 along, the little waves in our wake shimmering faintly for 
 a moment and then sliding off, lost in blackness. It 
 streamed brighter and brighter; there was a faint, muf- 
 fled crash of falling timbers ; the sparks streamed upward 
 in fright and the light faded to a dim gleam among the 
 pines. It wavered, faded, and vanished in the darkness. 
 We turned and sailed on toward the lights of town, build- 
 ing out long beckoning spars across the water. 
 We left the next day.
 
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH 
 
 I SKIP the first two years of my college life. Few things 
 worth recording happened. I did barely enough work to 
 pass my courses, made spasmodic efforts at reformation 
 and failed to reform. I fell in with a happy-go-lucky 
 crowd and drifted with them, having a good time and 
 doing the minimum of work. 
 
 That seems to cover the first year, at least. Neither 
 Dick nor I permanently undermined our constitutions 
 by overwork. I flunked math and Dick flunked Caesar. 
 Dick passed math with an astonishingly high rating and 
 I made the sharks' division in Horace and stayed there. 
 We were each a little mystified at the other's failure and 
 at our own successes. In the second year Stowell branched 
 off into higher mathematics and embryo engineering work ; 
 I concentrated on Romance languages, because they came 
 easily to me and required the least concentration. Simple 
 quadratics are cryptograms to Dick now; my Latin has 
 gone like the sparkle of the fans Bandusia, splendidior 
 ritro. 
 
 The most important event of the two years seems some- 
 thing only slightly connected with college. I had an 
 affair with a town girl, the daughter of a soggy fat man 
 who kept a barber shop in which he moped and snored 
 grossly and drank bitters from a bottle labeled "Dand- 
 ruff Cure." Despite this parental handicap I was hard 
 hit by Connie; why, I don't know, unless because I was 
 at the age when one is either hard hit or not hit at all. 
 Certainly Connie was attractive, with a certain plump 
 prettiness and a way of saying "Hello!" dividing the 
 59
 
 60 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 word into three syllables, which lingers still in my mem- 
 ory. We went to dances together; my bill at the livery 
 stable became a thing of magnificent proportions ; I lost 
 what little rank I had in my classes. 
 
 And in the end I was thrown over flat for another 
 swain. The light of the world was extinguished. Water 
 fights with their accompaniment of sloppiness and jani- 
 torial wrath had lost their savor. There was no pleasure 
 now in midnight feeds at Scottie's ; it was no longer devil- 
 ish and sad-doggish to cross the campus, dim and shad- 
 owy as a roofless Greek temple in the moonlight, waking 
 the echoes and sluggard upperclassmen with barber shop 
 renditions of the salubrity of existence in our "castle, 
 castle, castle on the re-he-he-ver Rhine !" 
 
 I gave up everything and took to wearing flannel shirts 
 and shaving only twice a week. 
 
 I can afford to smile now, but at the time my over- 
 throw was material for dark and dismal tragedy. 
 Strangely enough, Elizabeth failed to enter into the affair 
 at all. My feelings toward her were unchanged. I went 
 with Connie because others of my crowd went with town 
 girls ; because squiring her to dances proved me a man 
 among men; because it appealed to me as the romantic 
 thing to do. And I see now that it was not my rejection 
 that hurt, but the realization added by a timely notice 
 from the Dean's office that I had made a fool of myself. 
 I remade that discovery many times in my later life, but 
 this first realization hurt worst of all. . . . 
 
 I had a wretched time of it for the rest of that year. 
 So far my college career had been an utter and abject 
 failure; I was a man apart, without friends. Stowell had 
 his own crowd by this time, a circle of budding engineers 
 who talked a strange jargon of logarithms and elevations 
 which was beyond my comprehension. I had cut loose 
 from my own crowd and found myself poor company. 
 I became supersensitive and spent long hours in the li- 
 brary, absorbing endless books.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 61 
 
 I must have exaggerated immensely, for I left that June 
 with the firm intention of never returning. But during 
 that summer, in the saner air of Whitehaven, I regained 
 my perspective and began to look forward to September 
 and college again. I came to see that this affair was not 
 an end in itself, but the lopping off of a branch which 
 had threatened to overshadow and crowd out wood of 
 sounder growth. I made up my mind to go back and do 
 some real work; two years wasn't much, but it was at 
 least a chance to redeem myself. During my self-inflicted 
 isolation of the spring I had added greatly to my knowl- 
 edge of Romance literature more for lack of other em- 
 ployment than with any idea of serious study. I fell in 
 with Estey, the white haired, precisely spoken head of 
 the French department ; he ignored the fact of my blasted 
 career and treated me like a white man. I was properly 
 grateful and began to speculate on futures connected with 
 the teaching of modern languages. 
 
 During that summer the electric cars invaded White- 
 haven. In spring vacation Dick had lugged a rod in the 
 surveying gang, just for the practice. He performed 
 to the admiration of all beholders save myself, who 
 could see no fun in working for fun and that summer 
 McNally, head of construction, gave him authority over 
 a transit. Later, the survey finished, he had plenary 
 powers over a gang of Italians, building out a fill across 
 the marsh. I helped him by giving him some Italian 
 phrases calculated to inspire industry. I saw very little 
 of him; he was busy and so was I. My father took his 
 first vacation in years, went two voyages in the Mary 
 Hawes and left me in full charge of the store, with Joe 
 Grigsby to help me. 
 
 Dick came into the store one evening, during the dull 
 hour just before closing time.
 
 62 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "How's the work?" he asked, perching on the counter 
 and swinging his legs. 
 
 "Hard labor, Dick," I answered, only too glad to be 
 interrupted in my checking up of accounts. "I had no 
 idea the old gent worked so hard. Guess he needed a 
 vacation. Is tfie fill coming along all right?" 
 
 Bess and I had driven out the week before to inspect 
 his work, and Dick had boasted of the fact that his gang 
 was far ahead of the crew who were building out from 
 the further side of the marsh. 
 
 He nodded in answer to my question. "We'll make 
 connections in a week," he said without interest. 
 
 "Still ahead?" 
 
 "Still ahead. But they have to haul their gravel fur- 
 ther, you know." 
 
 "You'll have time for a week's lay-off, then, before we 
 go back." 
 
 "Urn." 
 
 "I'll be glad to get back," I went on awkwardly. "I'm 
 going to plug this year. I've been a good deal of a fool 
 so far; now I'm going to settle down and work." 
 
 "So am I," he agreed. 
 
 "You always have." There was no need of stating the 
 contrast between us. "I've reserved that corner room in 
 Franklin House this year. It's quiet no freshmen 
 around and we could fix it up fairly well. Suit you?" 
 
 "That's a good room," he assented absently. "Perhaps 
 I might as well tell you before you make any more plans. 
 I'm not going back." 
 
 His statement took me completely by surprise. One 
 of the things which had influenced my decision to return 
 had been the fact that I would not go back alone. I was 
 unable to imagine college without Dick. 
 
 "On the level?" I managed to ask. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "I thought you were getting along all right," I expos-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 63 
 
 tulated. "It isn't a matter of money, is it? Or have 
 your folks " 
 
 "Convinced me that I'm wasting my time?" he laughed. 
 "Hardly; I think that I've convinced them about that. 
 And I'm not quitting, exactly ; I'm transferring to Tech." 
 
 "And how long have you had this under your hat?" I 
 asked reproachfully. 
 
 "Ever since last winter," he admitted. "Old Dude Colby 
 advised me to transfer if I could get the credits fixed 
 up. I fixed it. I lose half a year, but I can take straight 
 engineering now, without any of the frills. But I wasn't 
 sure until last week and there was no use in telling you 
 and then having to back down. You see?" 
 
 I saw. I had felt precisely the same about my half 
 formed resolutions of abandoning college. "But what's 
 the idea?" I inquired. "I know that you'll be able to get 
 more and better technical stuff, but what are you going 
 to plug for? Chemistry? Physics? Civil engineering?" 
 
 "Mining engineering," he answered, with the air of 
 one mentioning sacred things. "It's a great profession. 
 McNally the boss, you know is an M. E. and I've been 
 talking it up with him all summer. It's the only thing for 
 me, I'm sure of that." 
 
 I voiced a legitimate objection. "Have you ever seen 
 a mine, Dick? Aren't you going it blind letting the ro- 
 mantic side of mining influence you too much?" 
 
 He looked at me with a trace of amusement. I wonder 
 if he realized then how much of my own life was founded 
 upon the purely romantic aspect of things? 
 
 "There's not much romance about it," he answered. 
 "From what I know it's hard work and lots of it. Ro- 
 mance doesn't appeal to me as much as to some other 
 people. I'm not built that way. The harder and solider 
 a thing is the better I like it. I want to get down to bed 
 rock. And mining is bed rock." 
 
 He broke off, a little ashamed of his self analysis, "And
 
 64 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 you never heard of a mining engineer dying poor, did 
 you?" 
 
 "I never heard of one dying at all, Dick; perhaps 
 they're so busy they forget to die." I felt hurt, not at 
 parting from Dick, but that he was going somewhere that 
 I couldn't go. I realized that this meant the definite di- 
 vergence of our ways. For the first time I had a sense of 
 limitation. "But it's as good a way as any of making a 
 living, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes," he agreed vaguely. "I suppose I'll see you be- 
 fore you go back and during vacations. You can find 
 time to drive out and see me, anyway. Come out and 
 hear me swear in Dago I've improved a lot lately. But 
 in case you don't have time " 
 
 He slid down and offered me his hand. We both had 
 a dread of slopping over into sentiment; we shook hands 
 stiffly, in absurd formality, and he went out. 
 
 I saw him only once between this announcement and 
 my department for college, and then only at a distance. 
 I was going into Boston on some errand or other; just 
 outside town the railroad ran parallel to the new construc- 
 tion, at a distance of about a hundred yards. As I looked 
 out of the window I saw Dick. He and the other boss 
 stood at the ends of their respective tongues of earth 
 the two ends of the fill were nearly touching now and 
 bombarded each other with clods of earth, their two 
 gangs grinning from a safe distance. As I watched, a 
 well aimed shot of Dick's took the other man in the chest ; 
 he waved his arms in triumph and then turned on his 
 gang with mock ferocity. As I craned my neck backward 
 I saw them fall to shoveling furiously. 
 
 That was the last time I saw Dick for over four years. 
 There were letters between us, to be sure, but as time went 
 on they came at longer and longer intervals. It was sur- 
 prising how little we had in common. Dick left Tech 
 without graduating; I remember receiving a post card 
 from him announcing that he had "got aboard" with a
 
 FLOOD TIDE 65 
 
 South American mining syndicate. I sent him a long 
 letter in reply, thought of him frequently for almost a 
 week, envied him, and then almost forgot him. By the 
 time he reappeared I had forgotten him. 
 
 ra 
 
 These two events, my separation from Dick and this 
 affair with Connie, overshadow all my memories of col- 
 lege. All else seems subordinate, although no doubt more 
 momentous things happened during the four years. But 
 the identity of these more momentous things . . . that 
 is precisely what troubles me. They are not to be identi- 
 fied. I recall a fragment of a lecture by Daddy Bowles, 
 occupant of the Beardsley Chair of English Literature. 
 
 He lifted his voice in lamentation. "There is no litera- 
 ture dealing with college men," he wailed. "We have 
 stories infinite of shop girls, cowboys, sailors, brokers, 
 farm hands but, beyond a few ephemeral and distorted 
 tales of athletics and keg parties, nothing of the college 
 man. Why? Why?" 
 
 "I'll bite; why?" floated an irreverent voice from the 
 rear seats, and the resultant search for the offender has 
 erased Daddy's solution from my mind if, indeed, he 
 offered one. He had a singular facility for propounding 
 the unanswerable, as his quiz papers testified. 
 
 I offer my own solution. The true story of a man's 
 four years in college is a story of intellectual shifting 
 and rearranging. There is no plot, no continuity in it; 
 its coherence is that of a sand dune. To attempt analysis 
 is to bring the entire structure down about your ears in 
 confusion. My own college story is that of this unstable 
 intellectual changing, of fleeting ideas caught in passing, 
 of slow accretions from vagrant winds. I gained and 
 lost, gave and withheld, retained what pleased me and 
 molded it to my own ends. I changed, as every man 
 changes during this period, whether in college or not.
 
 66 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 But after many years it 'is difficult to recall this process 
 of losing or gaining, save to remember and appreciate 
 that it took place. Memory is a palimpsest; I catch 
 occasional glimpses and flashes of the old text here and 
 there, but these fragments are overwritten and obscured 
 by what has since occurred. Once, when the record was 
 clear and unsmudged by distance, Langdon and Graves 
 and I did a fair job of analyzing. But I give you that in 
 its proper place. . . . 
 
 Chief figure of what confused memories I have is Jerry 
 Graves, wandering along with his Hibernian expanse of 
 prehensile upper lip, his half smile and half frown and 
 his eternal readiness to wage verbal warfare over any- 
 thing that might present itself. He took Dick's place 
 with me, mainly because I had had the foresight to engage 
 a room and he, in his characteristically negligent fashion, 
 had found himself without a roof to cover him. During 
 the first week of our joint occupancy of the corner room 
 in old Franklin House some mad, mad wag painted a 
 death's head on the door; it is there yet, for all I know, 
 although Coffin and Graves have been safe at last in the 
 wide, wide world for these last twenty years. 
 
 I remember Graves chiefly for his remarkable ability 
 and his no less remarkable indolence. He was a born 
 critic, destructive and yet constructive, brilliant when he 
 wished to be brilliant and most astoundingly dull when a 
 subject failed to interest him. He was, and is yet, one 
 of the infrequent few who cheerfully abandon minor ad- 
 vantages for the privilege of criticizing the world at large 
 and his associates in particular. 
 
 It was through Graves that during those two years 
 our room became the center of attraction for most of the 
 thinking men of that college generation. Not all of them, 
 I know, for there were other groups about college at the 
 same time a crowd of sharks who had riotous evenings 
 over the Greek tragedies; the college politicians, vastly 
 mysterious over elections and the unbalance of power be-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 67 
 
 tween fraternities ; the athletic crowd, closely allied to the 
 politicians, and a vast Milky Way of other groups, all 
 founded on mutual interests and all more or less inter- 
 woven. Our own connection, as a group, was a tenuous 
 one; our interests overlapped and passed the boundaries 
 of the narrow circle of college life with which these others 
 were concerned. We took pride in being different. We 
 failed to worship the past, to the scandal of the purely 
 intellectuals ; we had a proper sense of the relative unim- 
 portance of the present, an attitude which antagonized 
 the seekers after collegiate honors. As nearly as I can 
 define it, we were all more or less radicals and yet in no 
 way to be confused with present-day collegiate radicals 
 with ideas on Socialism, prohibition, labor problems, and, 
 as I write, pacifism and other subjects connected with 
 war. We were simply radical. We were against things; 
 we were blatantly against things. We talked, we debated, 
 we criticized all in faithful imitation of the pinwheel 
 which makes a great splutter but not much progress. 
 
 I remember our wrangles as staccato outbursts rather 
 than as connected and logical expositions ; a completed 
 sentence was a rarity and adherence to a direct line of 
 thought an unknown thing. Contact with one another 
 always provoked intermittent electrical discharges of 
 flashing and incompleted ideas ; heat lightning, playing 
 harmlessly among the clouds from pipes and cigarettes 
 which always swirled about the room harmless discharges 
 and sometimes not very illuminating. We all wanted to 
 talk, none came with the purpose of listening. We were 
 all very sincere and very earnest and very ignorant. The 
 real world was as unreal to us as an architect's elevation. 
 All the lines were there and a great deal of the detail, but 
 of the structure and internal arrangement, of the cunning 
 balance of interwoven thrust and strain we were entirely 
 ignorant. We were outside the building and could only 
 speculate on these things. 
 
 But it was fun and very good for us.
 
 68 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Many men came and went and a few came and stayed, 
 Graves, of course, was always there with his methodical 
 flashes of industry and his eternal readiness to argue. A 
 fairly frequent visitor was Ted Langdon, editor of the 
 college paper. He came primarily to listen, but was al- 
 ways drawn into the argument. When beaten he would 
 embody his views in an editorial and give us no chance of 
 rebuttal. It was very irritating and unfair. There were 
 others who partook of the character of charter members ; 
 Cameron, a voluble and prodigal Scotchman with a ten- 
 dency to mistake noise for logic ; a lanky man from Ver- 
 mont and a tubby man from Illinois, both budding author- 
 ities on law ; a man named Joy who wrote neat little essays 
 and sirupy poems for the moribund Lit. and talked like 
 a longshoreman. They drifted in and out, became more 
 or less identified with other groups, and ultimately re- 
 turned to dispute and scrap with Graves. 
 
 I was a fair sample of the lot, I imagine. For a time 
 I hitched up with the intellectual faction, the culturists ; 
 there was a spasmodic interest among them that year in 
 the connection between late Latin and Proven9al. Then 
 I discovered that my length of leg promised a future in 
 the line of high jumping, and for a time I hung on the 
 fringes of the athletic crowd. Again, I revived my inter- 
 est in painting, did some decorative stuff for the funny 
 sheet, illustrated jokes when some one supplied the joke, 
 and was ultimately elected to the board. But these were 
 side issues; my main interest, I can see now, was the in- 
 cendiary radicalism and futurism which flickered and 
 flared and guttered with Graves ever in the center of the 
 conflagration. 
 
 As I think of these undergraduate "beefs" I get more of 
 the physical than the mental atmosphere. I have an im- 
 pression of men sprawling about, generally avoiding the 
 center of the room ; there were usually a good half dozen
 
 FLOOD TIDE 69 
 
 occupants of the two couches which filled the darker angle 
 of the room, the first comers reclining at ease and speak- 
 ing mysteriously from behind the backs of those who came 
 later. I have an impression of Graves, dividing his time 
 between discussion and ineffectual efforts at concentra- 
 tion on a battered typewriter. Sometimes there was a 
 subsidiary group before the fireplace; more frequently 
 the fireplace was cold and cheerless, due to Cameron's 
 prodigality with our fuel. I remember the gray and black 
 figures of the huntsmen on the wall paper a relic of the 
 days when Franklin House had been the residence of old 
 Professor Franklin and this room his study forever 
 caracolling gayly behind the shifting blue stratae of smoke. 
 They had been silent and unheeding witnesses of genera- 
 tions of arguments such as ours since first they set out 
 in quest of the bench-legged stag, just beyond their view 
 around the corner of the mantel; I imagine that they 
 have heard the same subjects discussed in the same ways 
 many times since. Their quest, with its silent view-halloos 
 and ceaseless riding through impossible gray forests, was 
 as endless and eternal as ours. 
 
 The physical side of it is clear enough, impressed on 
 my memory by frequent repetition, but the mental side of 
 it seems to elude me. I have no doubt that there was much 
 transitory talk of athletics. The same is true of ohms 
 and hexameters and gerunds. I remember hot discussions 
 on Darwinism as opposed to Christianity; I recall a 
 wrangle on the possibility of inter-stellar communication 
 which raged during one examination period and left the 
 stars as distant as before; a man from West Virginia, 
 with first hand information on feuds, inspired us to debate 
 on the comparative sanctity of life and property; I re- 
 member that Langdon struck out on a weird line of 
 thought and surprised us all until some one else read 
 Butler's Erewhon. I remember wordy arguments on 
 Bryanism how the old subjects do persist! 
 
 Only one of these wrangles stands out beyond the
 
 70 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 others. At the time it was but one discussion of many; 
 I remember it now because it was, in a way, prophetic. 
 We talked of efficiency and this, mind you, was in the dim 
 depths of the middle '90's. Truly there is no new thing 
 under the sun. 
 
 Graves started it, as ever. He always tossed out the 
 bones over which we fought. 
 
 "There's a devil of a lot of waste in the world," he 
 said reflectively. 
 
 "Always has been," said some morose body. 
 
 "No reason why there always should be," offered Came- 
 ron with superhuman wisdom. 
 
 "The inertia of the old order " began some hidden 
 
 orator. 
 
 "Rot!" broke in Graves. "That's outside the case. 
 We've been going so fast that we're bound to waste. 
 Everything of late has been big the bigger the better. 
 And big things always run to waste." 
 
 "For example?" 
 
 "Everywhere," said Graves, magnificently vague, "rail- 
 roads, government, foundries " he made an all-inclu- 
 sive gesture and knocked a book to the floor. He stooped 
 and recovered it. "Yes, even in the book store. Here's old 
 Nick Machiavelli's "Prince." I ordered it three months 
 ago and then forgot it. And yesterday old Hadley dug 
 it out from the back shelves and shoved it off on me. I've 
 forgotten what I wanted it for. There's waste for you. 
 And that's only a sample. Same everywhere. What we 
 need is efficiency." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Being efficient using your brains to save your heels. 
 What we need is a coop store of the people, by the people 
 and for the people. It's a fact that the average European 
 family lives on what the American family wastes." 
 
 "So that's it," commented the irreverent Cameron. 
 "I've always wondered where the garbage scows go after 
 they pass the Narrows."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 71 
 
 Graves ignored the interruption. "There's too much 
 waste, too much running around in circles. We need 
 short cuts, simplification, cutting out of details." 
 
 Langdon removed his pipe. "How?" he asked, and im- 
 mediately sealed the aperture again. 
 
 "Short cuts, I said," repeated Graves. "For example, 
 in getting this book old Hadley had to write to a New 
 York house. They sent an ambassador to the publishers. 
 The publishers shipped an envoy to Italy to look up 
 Machiavelli's descendants and get their opinion on the 
 matter. And finally I got the book. That may not have 
 been the exact procedure, but they had time enough to go 
 through some such rigmarole. The same with everything; 
 middlemen until you can't stir without falling over one 
 and paying him for being in the way. They should be 
 Done Away With absolutely." 
 
 "How?" exploded Langdon again. 
 
 "Oh, damn!" said Graves, pinned down. "Buy direct 
 cut corners simplify. Don't ask me for details." 
 
 "Organization," volunteered some lucid soul. 
 
 "It doesn't work," I interjected. My own painful ex- 
 perience along cooperative lines recurred to me. 
 
 "Et tu, Brute?" Graves contemplated me sadly, then, 
 with a covert grin, clacked away again on his typewriter. 
 To start a discussion and then abandon it to its fate was 
 a favorite trick of his. 
 
 "Why can't it be done?" queried Langdon, persistent 
 seeker after light. 
 
 "I've tried it," I said, and told my experience in trying 
 to convert Frank Patch and old Mr. Adams to the doc- 
 trines of cooperation. As I remember it, I elaborated 
 my theories to some length, adding frills and details to 
 enlarge the plan beyond a mere country grocery affair. 
 I proved that Graves's idea was well founded in theory 
 and then pulled the props from under his structure by 
 reciting my own failure. 
 
 "But why?" persisted Langdon.
 
 72 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Because these old duffers were hide-bound." 
 
 "Not at all. You attacked it in the wrong manner. 
 
 Now my idea " and Langdon preempted my plan, 
 
 stripped it to a bare framework and skillfully built it up 
 anew. He quoted authorities mostly Russians and Ger- 
 mans with elusive names and cited statistics which I sus- 
 pect were manufactured for the occasion. Men offered 
 suggestions; I myself discovered new possibilities and 
 aided in collaboration. Out of the riot of deep voices 
 and shrill voices, each trying to ride down the others 
 and make itself heard and with Cameron conducting a 
 Delphic chorus of derision from the couch corner we 
 evolved a most wonderful creation. The exact details 
 escape me, but it is my impression that the foundation of 
 the structure was a test case and a Supreme Court deci- 
 sion. The Supreme Court, next t.o ourselves, was the 
 most enlightened body in the country. There was to be 
 a Central Purchasing Bureau, I remember; a Board of 
 Statistics; a body having something to do with raw ma- 
 terials; a distribution committee we would, of course, 
 take over the railroads and an infinite number of minor 
 boards and committees regulating production and distri- 
 bution. As we planned, I wrested the speakership from 
 Langdon and was very dictatorial. It was all very beauti- 
 ful and all very absurd, as we knew. 
 
 "And if any one objects?" inquired Graves sardoni- 
 cally, as we added the last pinnacles and minarets to our 
 structure. 
 
 "There'll be objection, surely," admitted Langdon. 
 "Great objections from the hoi-polloi, politicians, specu- 
 lators and conservatives in general. But shrieking blue 
 bloody murder is their long suit. Which class are you 
 in?" 
 
 "Far be it," responded Graves. "But I'm afraid that 
 your reforms are a bit too sweeping, too sudden. Not 
 that they're not needed, for they are. But how will you 
 do all this?"
 
 FLOOD TIDE 73 
 
 "It'll take time," said some one. 
 
 "A small matter of a thousand years," scoffed Graves. 
 "I suggested efficiency. And you idiots take the bit in 
 your teeth and run wild on reform. Efficiency, as I see 
 it, includes the gagging and binding of those who let their 
 mouths run for the pleasure of hearing the drip and gur- 
 gle. In my opinion you're a lot of unregenerate Social- 
 ists. The present plan is all right, considering the limi- 
 tation of being the product of human beings. All it needs 
 is refining, not a new plan. And especially not such a 
 half baked one as you've cooked up." 
 
 "What is the present plan?" challenged Cameron. 
 
 Graves was silent. 
 -"Is there one?" 
 
 "There isn't," said Graves. "But has there ever been? 
 And will there ever be? We've lived in a planned life so 
 far, with everything mapped out for us ; such and such 
 courses to take with so much credit for each. That isn't 
 the world by a long shot. Some of us are going to plug 
 our heads off and get flunked after all; others will take 
 snap courses and make Phi Beta Kappa without trying. 
 There's no race of supermen to plan and order the world 
 at large except, of course, Coffin and Langdon." 
 
 "Education," offered a voice from the corner. 
 
 Graves shook his head. "We've spent eighteen years, 
 on the average, in getting an education. And are we 
 supermen? I think not." 
 
 "I'm hanged if you are, anyway," said Cameron bru- 
 tally. 
 
 Whether the talk drifted off into educational matters 
 or ended in a rough-house between Graves and Cameron 
 I can't remember. I think it very likely that we ulti- 
 mately wound up in a free for all debate on religion. All 
 subjects seemed ultimately to lead to that end. Graves
 
 74 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 always succeeded in switching the discussion to that inex- 
 haustible field ; "Just as in the case of religion," he would 
 say, and then draw his analogy. Trouble always followed. 
 Graves still remains the only theological crank of my ac- 
 quaintances; extremes of religion or of irreligion are 
 rare in these flays. 
 
 His extreme was that of irreligion. Graves posed as 
 a blatant atheist, but to this day I'm not sure how far 
 he was really convinced in that direction. I know that 
 at one time or another he impressed some part of his per- 
 sonal convictions on all of us. 
 
 "See here," I remember him saying, in answer to some 
 particularly steadfast clinger to the faith of his fathers, 
 "see here, religion isn't a matter of inheritance. It isn't 
 belief in the gates of pearl or the resurrection of the dead. 
 It's nothing more than right living according to the best 
 standards known. Belief and protestation of belief don't 
 enter into religion as I see it; it's a matter of works and 
 not words. Put your trust in a superior being if you 
 want to ; if you can, you're lucky. I can't. I'd be happier 
 if I could and I know it. But I can't and that settles it." 
 
 "I think that I'm a better man for believing," asserted 
 his antagonist. 
 
 "I don't doubt it," answered Graves, "and I think that 
 I'm a better man for not believing. Your way is yours 
 and mine is mine. There's no absolute standard of right 
 living, any more than there's an absolute standard of 
 gold value. It fluctuates, you know ; the sort of life that 
 would carry you to Heaven six centuries ago would get 
 you life imprisonment now. A man who sins while know- 
 ing better isn't the same as a sinner who sins thinking it 
 the right thing to do. And avoidance of sin is nothing 
 more than a prophylactic measure, anyway." 
 
 "You admit that the standards of Christianity are the 
 best," accused the believer. 
 
 "Yes the standards. But I regard them as the sum 
 of human wisdom, not the edicts of a superior being. And
 
 FLOOD TIDE 75 
 
 I'm none the worse for it save that if I believed blindly 
 I'd not be wasting my time enlightening you. By the way, 
 have you any doubts?" 
 
 "In what?" 
 
 "That God spake unto Moses and all that. You be- 
 lieve implicitly?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Not a small doubt 'way down deep?" 
 
 The steadfast one shook his head obstinately. 
 
 "It's my opinion that you're a liar," concluded Graves. 
 "If you're telling the truth your education has been 
 wasted. The man who hasn't a doubt about anything 
 isn't educated and angels will never perch on his pillow." 
 
 And Graves added another lifelong enemy to his list. 
 
 This subject of religion gave me a good deal of trouble 
 before I realized that there was no absolute solution. 
 Graves robbed me of whatever belief I had held in the in- 
 fallibility of Holy Writ and not until I had threshed out 
 some sort of solution for myself did I let the matter drop. 
 Finally I fell back on the religion of my father that the 
 soul is a manifestation of energy and therefore imperish- 
 able, and that Christianity Graves had a hand here is 
 as good a rule for right living as the mind of man can 
 conceive. That was my doctrine then; it is now. I feel 
 that there is something beyond this life; I hope there is. 
 What it is I cannot define, nor have I any desire to in- 
 quire into it too narrowly. With Omar, I believe that "I 
 myself am Heaven and Hell" ; let others build what visions 
 of the after-life they please for they are only visions, 
 after all I envy them their belief but cannot share it. 
 
 I wonder if college men to-day talk of these things? I 
 think they do ; I know that although we thought that "we 
 were the first that ever burst into that silent sea" of dis- 
 covery, the men who had gone before us had gone through 
 this process of shifting and rearranging of ideas and I 
 suppose the same holds true of the men who came after 
 us. Methods of education may change, but the men who
 
 76 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 were in their early twenties then had the same doubts and 
 hopes as the college men of to-day. 
 
 Some men never did and never would think of these 
 things, but in general our attitude toward them was the 
 attitude of the majority of the men about us, each one of 
 us discovering and solving after his own fashion. One 
 manifestation of this unrest was an irreligious revival 
 which occurred that spring; a series of impromptu Sal- 
 vation Army meetings, consisting chiefly of red fire, 
 pounding on a decrepit bass drum and the relation of bur- 
 lesque conversions to the "worship of the Lamb." . . . 
 "Three years ago I was in the gutter; now look at me." 
 You know the sort. . . . Perhaps it was nothing more 
 than a means of blowing off steam, but I think that the 
 roots of it went deeper than that. 
 
 VI 
 
 During all this time I was digging deeper and deeper 
 into modern languages, that part of the curriculum which 
 came easiest to me. Somewhere along the road the idea 
 of teaching as a profession came to me. Just what led 
 to this crystallization of my ambitions I don't know ; per- 
 haps it was my growing intimacy with the professors and 
 instructors in that department, for one of my great dis- 
 coveries during these last two years had been that a man 
 could teach and still be human. I became especially inti- 
 mate with Estey, the head of the French department, and 
 his tales of student days in Paris and Italy fired my im- 
 agination and made me want to fall in with this life. 
 
 "You have a good foundation in grammar, Coffin," he 
 said to me one night, "a very good foundation. A sum- 
 mer in France, with a trip to Italy Florence, I'd recom- 
 mend, for they speak the purest there and you will be 
 better fitted to teach than most of the instructors we 
 have here. A year abroad would be better, but you could 
 get a fair idea of pronunciation and idiom in three
 
 FLOOD TIDE 77 
 
 months. Then in succeeding summers unless you marry, 
 and you won't have money enough for that you can go 
 back and get more of it. But don't live in hotels, as you 
 value your soul; get down among the peasant classes." 
 
 He chuckled and wagged his head reminiscently. 
 
 "I landed in Florence from Pisa with three lire. I 
 sold matches in the street and lived on polenta until my 
 cheque came through from home. And then, d'you know, 
 I didn't cash it for a week. Fact. I liked living that 
 way." 
 
 That was romance ! Being broke at home wasn't much 
 fun, as I already knew, but to be penniless four thousand 
 miles from home, to sell matches and live on polenta ah ! 
 That was indeed something to look forward to. 
 
 During senior year I made up my mind to follow Es- 
 tey's advice; to spend a summer abroad and then come 
 back to teach. I had come to like this academic atmos- 
 phere and I wanted to stay in it; it was leisurely, but 
 constructive, outside the main current of affairs, perhaps, 
 but all the better for this isolation. I can remember no 
 positive distaste on my part for business and life outside 
 of college; my choice was no more a choice than had been 
 my interest in languages. It was again a matter of drift- 
 ing into the easiest and most convenient course, rather 
 than a deliberate choice. The question of money failed to 
 enter into my decision to the slightest degree. I realized 
 that teaching was a somewhat monastic form of getting a 
 livelihood, but it was a pleasant one. 
 
 I planned a pleasant future for myself, as beautiful as 
 one of those summer clouds we call "thunder-heads," tow- 
 ering into the sunlight above the dark and the rain below; 
 a life above the storms in the clean atmosphere of the upper 
 regions and a life as unsubstantial as one of these same 
 solid-seeming clouds. It needs but a slight shift in the 
 wind to tear dreams of this sort to wisps and tatters of 
 vapor and scatter them forever.
 
 78 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 For some unfathomable reason there was an interim of 
 a week between the last examination and Commencement ; 
 usually a week of deadly dullness, of undergrads leaving 
 for vacation and graduates dribbling in for reunions and 
 a general confusion and breaking up of the ordered course 
 of the college year. The seniors either spent the week 
 in dismal packing and disposing of the accumulated rub- 
 bish of four years or alternated between drunkenness and 
 repentance. We were wiser. Cameron's father had a 
 camp on a bit of a lake up north and at his invitation a 
 dozen or so of us went up there, to return the night before 
 Commencement. It was an interlude between undergradu- 
 ate life and real life and was immensely good for us. 
 
 For a week we fished and tramped through the woods 
 and came back to camp to feast royally on brook trout 
 and play penny ante far into the night. Such minor mat- 
 ters as examinations and books and lectures fell away into 
 the dim and distant past; we were through with such 
 things forever and did our best to forget them. Cameron 
 took advantage of his position as host and started a post- 
 mortem on a final paper in Greek and was ducked in the 
 lake, with only one dissenting vote beside his own. Lang- 
 don held forth for burning him at the stake. 
 
 Langdon and I went fishing together on the last day 
 of our stay, setting out after breakfast and covering more 
 miles than I like to think of before turning back. Then 
 Langdon insisted on fishing down stream, instead of strik- 
 ing out across country as any sensible mortal would. As 
 a result it was after sunset when we dragged into camp. 
 
 We found Graves alone, the rest of the crowd having 
 gone down the lake to the village. Good old Graves ! He 
 had mixed a great bowl of flapjack batter, with an un- 
 limited supply of maple sirup and coffee on the side; we 
 kept him over the stove until the spoon scraped the bot- 
 tom of the bowl and we found difficulty in drawing a full
 
 FLOOD TIDE 79 
 
 breath. We wrangled about the number of fish we had 
 caught, as we stuffed ourselves ; Langdon, silly fool, made 
 plans to go back in the morning and have a final try for 
 a big fellow he had missed. Finally we threw the .dishes 
 in the half hogshead of water under the sink and went out 
 on the porch overhanging the lake. 
 
 After the preliminary scrapings of chairs and demands 
 for tobacco and flaring of matches, we were silent. It 
 was quite dark by this time; just enough light remained 
 to pick out the dim outlines of the hills to the west of 
 the lake. Through a gap between two jagged hills was 
 a more distant and higher peak, standing out in faint 
 purple against their green-black duskiness. The waves, 
 barely audible on the beach below us, came from an im- 
 mense void; space had ceased to exist. There were no 
 visible shore b'nes to the lake; we sat on the edge of un- 
 fathomable space. 
 
 Graves grunted inarticulately in appreciation; we 
 smoked thoughtfully in reply. Somewhere along the lake 
 shore a frog cleared his throat tentatively and was evi- 
 dently satisfied that he was in good voice; a booming 
 "Darrnmk!" floated out and came back faintly from the 
 invisible further shore. Again the frog announced his 
 inebriety and for the third time. As though at the promp- 
 ter's call there came the faint sound of voices from down 
 the lake, a mere whisper at first, with only a bare thread 
 of melody creeping in now and then. It was the crowd 
 paddling back from the village. A murmuring medley of 
 echoes beat in on us, flung back by the great pines across 
 the lake and the bare hillsides above. Bit by bit the 
 echoes grew as the main volume of sound approached; we 
 made out scattering fragments of the tune; something 
 about Clementina and a forty-niner and a detailed descrip- 
 tion of the lady's charms. Langdon hummed a wordless 
 tenor, lost the air, puffed furiously at his pipe and re- 
 lapsed into silence again. 
 
 "Young Indians !" drawled Graves softly.
 
 80 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Langdon grunted in acquiescence. A match flared as 
 Graves relit his pipe; we saw his face outlined against 
 the silken dusk for a moment and heard the complaining 
 squeak of his chair as he settled back. 
 
 "I wonder . . ." he said thoughtfully, and stopped. 
 
 "Wonder what?" 
 
 "Nothing. I was just wondering whether Tommy and 
 Moose and Peachpie and the rest of the crowd out there 
 will feel like singing a year from now." 
 
 "Why shouldn't they?" 
 
 "I don't know. I was just wondering." He smoked 
 silently. "I think we're all wondering just a little," he 
 went on. "Just what are we going up against? We have 
 what was it that musty old duffer said in chapel last 
 Sunday? 'these young men who have achieved the stand- 
 ard, O Lord,' or words to that effect. But what stand- 
 ard? I suppose we're finished products, all but the label. 
 So much Latin and such a percentage of science; a dash 
 of history, a trace of economics and about fifty per 
 cent of undetermined material. Is there a standard? 
 That's what puzzles me. And if there is one, what is it?" 
 
 "Certified oyster shuckers," I suggested. 
 
 He paused a moment and then disentangled my mean- 
 ing. " 'The world is mine oyster,' you mean? But is it? 
 And will we find pearls or open oysters for others all our 
 lives?" 
 
 "That's up to us." 
 
 "I suppose so," Graves assented gloomily. "But there 
 ought to be some certainty about a standard. We ought 
 to be sure." 
 
 "That's part of the game," observed Langdon, "and 
 the best part. I know that I'll get a sheepskin to-morrow, 
 unless they rake up some of my past misdeeds, and the 
 next day I know that I'm going home. After that, I 
 haven't a plan in the world. I have a vague idea that 
 some day I'll get married and some other day I'll 
 die; those things seem to happen to most people. I
 
 FLOOD TIDE 81 
 
 may even have to work for a living. I'm not worrying." 
 
 "I envy you," said Graves. 
 
 "I envy you" retorted Langdon. "You two are stand- 
 ardized and I'm not. You may not know it, but you are. 
 You have ideals ; you look ahead ; you have provided for 
 the future. I haven't. Coffin is going abroad, to drink 
 absinthe under pink and white awnings along the Boul' 
 Mich' and try his voice in the Blue Grotto at Capri ; he'll 
 come back with baggy pants and a mosquito netting neck- 
 tie to teach freshmen their avoirs and etres. He knows 
 what he's going to be at thirty and at forty and at sixty ; 
 we know what he'll be, too, and it's a wonder that we 
 endure his presence as calmly as we do. The same with 
 you, Graves. Next week you'll have a pair of overalls 
 and a job in your father's grain elevator; you'll be trot- 
 ting around with sweat in your eyes and dust in your 
 throat and a vision of cornering the wheat market in the 
 back of your head. But you won't. In ten years you'll 
 have a house on the west side of the tracks, with a Swede 
 girl in the kitchen and the guest chamber turned into 
 an overflow nursery. Your standardized feet are set on 
 the standardized road of all good graduates. You will 
 work, marry, keep out of jail if possible, send your sons 
 back to follow in your footsteps and have your reward 
 in a quarter page in the annual report under 'Necrology.' 
 If you are very successful they will run a black border 
 around it, with an old English initial; if you're only par- 
 tially standardized you'll get nothing but plain type." 
 
 He paused, and sighed while Graves chuckled. 
 
 "Sometimes I feel the pull of the downward path my- 
 self," he concluded. "I'm afraid that I'm partially stand- 
 ardized myself. I haven't been successful in wasting all 
 of these last four years." 
 
 "Neither have I," said Graves soberly. "I'm a better 
 and a wiser man than I was four years ago, better and 
 wiser than I'd be if I'd spent the four years in any other 
 way, I think, although there's no telling. Four years
 
 82 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 ago the world consisted of football with a fringe of algebra 
 and minor vexations. Two years ago I wanted to destroy 
 everything and start over again clean ; the world had got- 
 ten into a horrible mess somehow or other and that seemed 
 the easiest way out. Now any one can call me a fool 
 and I'll agree, with him. I've learned nothing save how 
 little I know." 
 
 "Isn't that the standard?" 
 
 "The sum of all wisdom," murmured Langdon. 
 
 "It's the beginning of wisdom, at any rate," said 
 Graves. "But what has given me that view? I'm changed ; 
 we're all changed. Why? It's something more than nor- 
 mal growth, but just what it is . . ." 
 
 "Catalysis," Langdon's voice came to us out of the 
 shadows. "You know that process of making sulphuric 
 acid? You mix your sulphur dioxide and stinking stuff 
 it is, too mix it with air in the presence of platinum 
 and run it into water result, pure sulphuric. And 
 this is the point you get your platinum back unchanged. 
 Just how or why it does the work we don't know. I don't 
 know, anyway. There are lots of things I don't know. 
 But I do know that the process won't go on without it. 
 Just the same with college; bring your ideas and men 
 in contact with college as a witness and you get some- 
 thing which may or may not be pure but which is surely 
 stronger than the ordinary run of human chemistry. 
 Why? That's another of the things I don't know. I'm 
 no better than the average man because I know Catullus 
 and Goethe and Marlowe; any fool can study them and 
 lots of fools do. I haven't grown through reading books 
 and sleeping through lectures. College has been the 
 catalyst in my life and in Coffin's and in yours; it has 
 changed us without being changed itself. It's not the 
 stuff we've studied; hang that and the sooner we forget 
 it the better for us. But we have come to appreciate 
 that there's something in life beside mere body needs and 
 satisfactions ; somthing beyond, always something be-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 83 
 
 yond whatever narrow circle we happen to drift into after 
 to-morrow. We are shut off forever from intolerance and 
 narrowness and impatience with others; we've gone 
 through that and come out beyond, into something 
 broader and bigger. We've gone up on the heights and 
 seen the world ; after to-morrow we go down into it. But 
 we can't forget that we've seen the whole or enough of 
 the whole to give us some idea of the illimitable field of 
 human life and thought. That's what our catalyst has 
 done to our raw material nothing more than keep our 
 minds open during the period during which crystalliza- 
 tion usually occurs." 
 
 He leaned forward and tapped a hissing shower of 
 sparks into the lake below. "I'd like to write one more 
 editorial for the old paper to that effect," he said regret- 
 fully. 
 
 "I think that you're right," agreed Graves, picking up 
 a minor point. "A good deal of this pessimism of ours, 
 this picking things apart, has been just a pose with us. 
 Not a pose, exactly, but a necessary stage of develop- 
 ment which we got through as soon as we could." Lang- 
 don made noises of assent. "But it's been good for us; 
 we've had glimpses of the wheels going 'round which we 
 could have got in no other way." 
 
 The canoes with their freight of singers were nearer 
 now, just rounding the point which had blanketed the 
 sound of their voices. We caught fragments of conver- 
 sation ; some one raised his voice in envy of Hal Brown's 
 "mash" on the damsel at the post office. Hal answered 
 with a splash of his paddle; we saw the faint phosphor- 
 escent gleam of spray and heard the howls of remon- 
 strance which followed. They struck off into song again 
 and we listened in vast satisfaction. 
 
 "You see," said Graves, becoming articulate in the 
 midst of some train of thought, "there are so many new 
 things in the world that some of them are sure to be mis- 
 used. You've got to try a thing out before you can see
 
 84 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 the faults in it. And this century has been one of trial 
 and experiment. We're children with a lot of new toys 
 steam and electricity and germ theories and all that. It's 
 a second Elizabethan age ; discovering new possibilities in 
 familiar things instead of discovering new lands. And 
 discoverers can't be expected to stop and patch things 
 up." 
 
 "Progress, progress everywhere and not a stop to 
 think," Langdon cut in. 
 
 "Perhaps. We've been stopping to think for four years 
 and I'm afraid that we're a little outside the main cur- 
 rent. We're prepared to enter it, in one way, and dam- 
 nably unprepared in another. As though Coff were to 
 set out for Europe with a clean pair of socks and a trunk 
 full of Baedekers. ... I wonder. Have we been learning 
 to appreciate scenery when we should have been tough- 
 ening our feet?" 
 
 "We'll toughen up," I assented confidently. "And you 
 can forget blisters and aches sometimes if you can see 
 something beside the road under your feet." 
 
 Graves sniff ed rather doubtfully, but I think that Lang- 
 don agreed with me. 
 
 The canoes were nearly abreast of the camp by this 
 time, three faint outlines suspended in the darkness. We 
 heard the careless plunk and drip of paddles as they 
 drifted slowly along. Some one in the nearest craft 
 reached the nub of a story and was rewarded by a thin 
 spurt of laughter. There is always one man in every 
 crowd who tells that kind of story at inopportune mo- 
 ments. 
 
 "And that reminds me of another," he was encouraged 
 to say. "There was an Irishman " 
 
 "Aw, save it for to-morrow," came a drawling voice 
 out of the dimness. 
 
 He saved it. 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Then Bones Joy, far 
 out in the most distant canoe, started that old, old song
 
 FLOOD TIDE 85 
 
 of inquiry; started softly at first and carrying the air, 
 then switching to a clear tenor as other voices joined in 
 with him. 
 
 "Where, oh where are the grass-green freshmen?" he 
 sang, and the brisk staccato march of the tune set our 
 feet swinging. 
 
 "Safe at last in the sophomore class," they concluded. 
 The second boat took up the tune and carried it on one 
 more year. More briskly still came information regard- 
 ing the drunken juniors from the third canoe. 
 
 There was a pause following the disposition of our 
 traditional enemies ; then, before the others could start 
 the fourth verse Graves rose to his feet, pulling up Lang- 
 don and myself on either side of him. He started the 
 slow, steady chant of the final section; Langdon joined 
 in with a soaring tenor and I made shift with an uncer- 
 tain bass which made up in volume what it lacked in tonal 
 quality. The wall of the camp behind us threw our voices 
 out over the dusky lake; perhaps it was surprise which 
 held the canoes silent ; perhaps it was appreciation. I 
 know that as we marched slowly along with the thrice 
 repeated inquiry the spirit of it got hold of us ; it was 
 something more than a student song with its roots reach- 
 ing back to God knows where. It was an expression of 
 faith. 
 
 "Where, oh where are the grand old seniors? 
 Safe at last in the wide, wide world." 
 
 "All in !" bellowed Graves, breaking the silence which 
 hung over the last strains of our trio. He waved as though 
 leading an invisible orchestra; the canoes swung off into 
 the requiem which has been sung over immemorial classes. 
 
 "They've gone out from their Alma Mater, 
 They've gone out from their Alma Mater, 
 They've gone out from their Alma Mater, 
 Safe at last m the wide, wide world."
 
 86 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Wide world!" repeated the echoes from the further 
 shore. 
 
 "And by God, we are!" said Graves and there was a 
 huskiness in his voice caused by something beside sing- 
 ing. Langdon coughed dryly, and I well, I sniffled and 
 was grateful for the darkness. 
 
 Then the canoes came in with a rush. We hauled them 
 out and built a great fire on the beach, and talked and 
 smoked and baked ourselves far into the night, until 
 Bones Joy fell asleep and nearly rolled into the fire. Then 
 we broke up and went to bed, casting the glowing brands 
 of the fire far out over the lake, wheeling and trailing 
 glowing arcs of sparks across the sky and finally hissing 
 to darkness in the water.
 
 CHAPTER THE FIFTH 
 
 I HAD planned to sail from Boston early in July, but I 
 stayed home for a while at my father's request. 
 
 "Wait over another boat, son," he had said. "I haven't 
 seen much of you for a year, you know." 
 
 I stayed willingly, although down deep in my heart I 
 regretted the loss of a week. My father was more silent 
 than ever during this week ; he was always rather taciturn 
 and I was so wrapped up in the summer ahead of me that 
 I failed to notice anything out of the way. I remember 
 feeling hurt when he failed to respond to my enthusiastic 
 plans ; he merely listened and said nothing. One evening 
 toward the end of the week, as we sat together in the liv- 
 ing room, I found out what he thought. He had been 
 silent ever since supper, puffing away at his pipe and 
 glancing aslant at me as I frowned over an ancient French 
 timetable a relic of the days when my ambitions had 
 turned toward railroading. Finally he hitched his chair 
 around to face me. 
 
 "Put by your book for a while, will you?" he asked. 
 "I want to talk to you." 
 
 I wondered what was coming, as I folded the ragged 
 sheets of the timetable; perhaps some fatherly advice on 
 the perils of Paris. 
 
 "I want you to stay home this summer," he said quietly. 
 
 I was silent, fumbling about in my mind for something 
 to say. Then a wave of senseless and childish disap- 
 pointment swept over me. 
 
 "Very well, sir, if you think I can't be trusted," I said 
 stumblingly. 
 
 871
 
 88 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "It's not that at all, son," he answered. "Perhaps I 
 should have gone at this some other way, but I'm no good 
 at beating around the bush. I've been thinking matters 
 over for a week and that's my conclusion. I want you 
 to stay home this summer. Will you?" 
 
 "You're the boss," I said stiffly. "It's your money." 
 
 The faint shadow of a smile lurked about his eyes. 
 
 "Don't look at it that way ; you don't owe me anything. 
 I've done no more for you than I should, and well, it's 
 been as much fun for me as it has for you. It's not a ques- 
 tion of money, or of my being boss, but something else. 
 
 "Let me make you my proposition," he went on, "and 
 then perhaps we can talk it over without your looking 
 so down in the mouth. I don't know the first thing about 
 this teaching game, beyond what you've told me. But 
 I've been thinking it over for quite a while and the only 
 conclusion that I can arrive at is that it's a deuce of a 
 poor way of getting a living. I may be wrong, and if 
 I am wrong I want you to show me. That's the way I 
 look at it now. I want you to think it over for your- 
 self between now and September and if you still think well 
 of it at that time I stand ready to finance a year abroad 
 for you. You can't do much in three months over there, 
 as you say." 
 
 Good, I thought ; a year was better than three months, 
 much better. As for changing my mind nonsense. 
 
 "Is it a bargain?" he asked. 
 
 "It is, dad, and I'm grateful to you for the chance." 
 
 "All right, then." He leaned back with a sigh of re- 
 lief. "I'm glad that you see it that way. D'you know, 
 I've been a bit afraid of you since you came home with 
 those glasses ; I feel that you know so much more than 
 I do." 
 
 I laughed rather shamefacedly as I took off the glasses. 
 "I don't really need them; they're more for the looks of 
 the thing than to help my eyes," I answered. "And as 
 for knowing more than you Cap'n Billy says that 'a
 
 FLOOD TIDE 89 
 
 man never gets so strong that he can lick his father,' and 
 he's right." 
 
 He chuckled, and filled his pipe again from the brown 
 bowl. 
 
 "Glad you think so highly of me. Now that you know 
 what I think of this teaching idea of yours we can talk 
 it over sensibly. How much would you get the first 
 year?" 
 
 "Eight or nine hundred," I answered. "I think the 
 average is about that." 
 
 "Not bad; not bad at all. About what the average 
 college graduate starts on, I imagine perhaps a little 
 better than the average. And after that ? The older men 
 get more than that, I suppose." 
 
 "I think that they run between twenty-five hundred 
 and three thousand, although I'm not sure. Some of them 
 get more heads of departments, for instance but I 
 think that holds good for most of them." 
 
 "Old men, aren't they? That is, they've been teaching 
 for fifteen or twenty years?" 
 
 Most of them were about forty-five, I thought. I 
 checked them off; Estey, Barnes, Hawes, Burton; yes, 
 they were all over that age. 
 
 My father shook his head with the air of one whose 
 suspicions are confirmed. "Doesn't it seem to you that 
 they're getting a mighty small return for their labor? I 
 know that they seem to have an easy time, a few hours 
 a day for nine or ten months of the year. That isn't 
 the question, of course. You're not looking for an easy 
 time. But they've poured their whole lives into teaching 
 and it seems to me that they ought to get more out of it. 
 And if they were business men they could sell out and re- 
 tire when they get along in years. But do they? I think 
 not; they've got nothing to sell out, and unless they've 
 been mighty careful and saving they have to stay in har- 
 ness until they drop." 
 
 I said something about "commercial attitude."
 
 90 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Few men work for the fun of it; you've got to look 
 at that side of the question. I'm not looking at that side 
 alone, but it's one of the things you've got to consider. 
 What I object to most is working for some one else all 
 your life. You were telling me about a man named Rey- 
 nolds the other day; what about him? Good man, wasn't 
 he?" 
 
 "One of the brightest men on the faculty." 
 
 "Well liked among the fellows?" 
 
 "You're right he was," I said warmly. "They had to 
 club men to keep them out of his courses." 
 
 "But still they fired him." 
 
 "Those old fossils on the Ad Committee were afraid 
 of him because he knew too much. He criticized and said 
 what he thought and then they let him go on a trumped- 
 up excuse." 
 
 "That's a rather sweeping indictment of college author- 
 ity," said my father. "Of course you're willing and pre- 
 pared to knuckle under and keep your mouth shut when 
 you're an instructor? Seems to me it's either that or 
 be fired, like Reynolds." 
 
 I hadn't considered that. I had liked Reynolds, as 
 every one did; most certainly, had I been in his shoes, I 
 should have acted as he did, spoken my mind freely, done 
 as I pleased provided my classes were well conducted 
 and probably been fired, as he had been. I remembered 
 that Estey had told me that one of the charges brought 
 up against Reynolds was that he had lowered the aca- 
 demic standard by wearing a soft shirt in classes. I saw 
 all this in a new light, and it troubled me. 
 
 "That's one of the things I want you to think over," 
 observed my father, as I sat silent. "You'll have to sac- 
 rifice a good many of your ideals whatever you do, whether 
 you teach or go into business. That's only one thing 
 you'll have to give up if you go into teaching this right 
 of thinking and saying what you please. Always a sub- 
 ordinate and never your own master."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 91 
 
 "Yes, perhaps I would," I answered thoughtfully. "I 
 hadn't looked at it in that light before." Already my 
 father's shafts were finding the weak places in my armor. 
 "But if I don't teach all my study will be wasted. Estey 
 says " 
 
 I stopped; to tell the truth, I was afraid to go on. I 
 had never seen my father angry before. 
 
 "The sooner you get this idea of 'Estey says' out of 
 your head the better for you," he said with a new note 
 in his voice. "I have no doubt but he's a good man, but 
 he's not living your life for you. He may have a lot of 
 fine theories of life, but they're just theories. And so 
 have you ; do you know anything about coal-mining, brok- 
 ering, real estate, beyond that in theory they're dirty 
 and commercial? That's it; everything outside of books 
 is dirty and money-grabbing in theory. By Heaven, 
 I'd rather fish for a living, and be able to call my soul my 
 own, than to have to knuckle down and say things I don't 
 believe and think tilings that I don't dare to say, just 
 because some Administration Committee might think that 
 I was radical and dangerous and a man to get rid of!" 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and knocked out the ashes of 
 his pipe. 
 
 "Hang it, I've lost my temper, a luxury I haven't per- 
 mitted myself in years," he said. "But I mean it all. 
 Estey and that crowd may seem broad-minded to you, 
 perhaps they are, but like most broad things they're shal- 
 low; any man who sees nothing in the world beyond his 
 immediate surroundings is shallow. As for your study 
 being wasted have you learned nothing but what you're 
 planning to teach? I think you've got a few things out- 
 side of that." 
 
 "I think I have, too." 
 
 "I've said enough, I guess, to let you know how I look 
 at these plans of yours ; I've said more than I intended. 
 Think it over; take all summer if you want. If you're 
 of the same mind in the Fall, I've made my promise and
 
 92 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I'll stick to it. If you really want to teach, want to 
 with all your heart and soul, you'll do it anyway. But 
 I don't think that you want it that way. It's up to you." 
 
 After that it was my father who read and I who 
 thought. 
 
 I cannot reconstruct that summer; I remember days 
 when I was convinced that I was right following and suc- 
 ceeded by days when I thought that the whole world was 
 wrong and that I as decidedly out of place in the gen- 
 eral scheme of things. This was really the first time in 
 my life that I had been called upon to decide things 
 for myself; it was the parting of the ways and I found 
 it very hard to make up my mind one way or the other. 
 This choosing of one road or the other is a common ex- 
 perience ; every man makes these decisions many times dur- 
 ing his lifetime. But usually they are made easily, with- 
 out thinking; only on looking back do we see that here 
 or there we have unknowingly passed the cross roads. 
 Decision is difficult when we sit down to think it over. 
 
 I went through this period of decision without asking 
 help. Yet Elizabeth helped me, in a way. During the 
 summer I realized that we had both changed. My own 
 change was an accentuation of the romantic streak in 
 my nature ; her change was toward an almost harsh prac- 
 ticality. At times I caught in her a distant resemblance 
 to Graves, minus his protean viewpoint but still prag- 
 matic. Again, some opinion of hers reminded me of Dick. 
 I began to distrust my loose and florid imagination as a 
 disease, to wonder if it might not lead me from one vain 
 imagining to another all my life. 
 
 Teaching, as a vocation, lost its appeal. Yet nothing 
 came to take its place. In this period of indecision I 
 wrote to Graves explaining my predicament; an absurd
 
 FLOOD TIDE 93 
 
 letter bristling with French quotations and tag ends of 
 second-hand philosophy. He replied, as I remember it, 
 that going to work would be a damned good thing for 
 me. 
 
 And, ultimately, I came to that decision myself. 
 
 I decided that my father was right and that Estey and 
 I were wrong. As the summer passed, I gradually came 
 over to my father's views of teaching and teachers ; I saw 
 that I had idealized these men and that there was an- 
 other side of their lives beside the pleasant intellectual 
 existence which had appealed to me. It was my first look 
 into the future, unblinded by romance; I put myself in 
 the place of Estey and considered what I would be at his 
 age. Forty-five, fifty, perhaps, with a professorship if I 
 was lucky and what else? A few thousands saved, per- 
 haps a house of my own ; the consciousness of a life spent 
 in clubbing grammar and literature into unresponsive 
 young cubs, and old age coming on. Old age, and the 
 constant fear of being supplanted by some younger man ; 
 either a constant, bitter struggle to keep abreast with 
 the times, learning after the zest for learning had gone, 
 or becoming out of date and behind the times. Strug- 
 gling, not to increase my earning power, but to keep pace 
 with the procession. I remembered the quaint manner- 
 isms of the older professors ; I had found amusement in 
 them once, but I didn't now. I deliberately looked at 
 the darker side to the exclusion of my former viewpoint; 
 I dug into my mind for doubts which I had once dis- 
 missed without consideration. It was the idea of work- 
 ing for some one else all my life which finally decided me. 
 I'm not sure, but I think it was the independence of the 
 life that attracted me, and with that illusion stripped 
 away the decision came easily. 
 
 Still I hesitated about telling my father. If I told 
 him, the decision would be irrevocable; I wanted to keep 
 the question open as long as possible. As a matter of
 
 94 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 fact, Bess was the first one to know of this decision ; after 
 I told her there was no backing out. 
 I asked her to marry me. 
 
 ra 
 
 It came quite unexpectedly to both of us. All through 
 college I had entertained a dim idea that some day I 
 would marry Bess, if I married at all, but all summer the 
 conviction had been growing upon me that life without 
 her would be insupportable. 
 
 I had gone over to her house, one evening after finish- 
 ing my work at the store, and found her in the garden 
 behind the house; we sat under the trees in the gathering 
 dusk, talked for a while and then fell silent. Then I 
 asked her. I remember the clear outline of her profile 
 against the darkening eastern sky as she plucked at the 
 close cropped grass and wrinkled her brows in perplex- 
 ity; I realized quite suddenly that she was a woman and 
 no longer a schoolgirl. I felt immeasurably young and 
 inexperienced ; I was rich in nothing but possibilities ; ex- 
 perienced in nothing at all; my only knowledge was that 
 I knew nothing. But I had asked her, and I sat dog- 
 gedly awaiting her answer. 
 
 "I don't know," she said slowly. "I've always thought 
 some day you and I " 
 
 "Just what I've always thought," I said eagerly. 
 
 "But that isn't the only thing. You'll be abroad for 
 a year and after that " 
 
 "I'm not going, Bess ; I've given that up." 
 
 She turned and looked at me, her lips parted in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "You're the first one to know it. I'm going into busi- 
 ness. I'm going to work at Hatherly's the wholesale 
 house, you know. Old Hatherly promised me a job once 
 and I'm going to take him up."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 95 
 
 She was still silent, adjusting herself to new condi- 
 tions. 
 
 "Well?" I said, as courageously as I could. 
 
 I saw one eyebrow creep up in that dear one-sided 
 smile and I knew my answer. She drew back and made 
 a gesture for silence; we heard some one approaching 
 around the corner of the house. 
 
 "Mother," she whispered. "Come." 
 
 Like two conspirators we crept around the house in 
 the twilight; I heard Mrs. Alden calling behind us, but 
 we reached the gate and the shelter of the hedge before 
 she saw us. 
 
 We hesitated, and then turned toward the sea. We 
 crossed the Square and struck into the road which led 
 out between the silent houses to the Point. The noises 
 and the lights of the town faded behind us; only we two 
 and the stars and the quiet breathing of the sea as we 
 went on. The road dwindled to a cart track, then to 
 a mere path. I slipped my arm about Bess and she drew 
 closer, her shoulder just under my arm. We were con- 
 tent. 
 
 But still. . . . 
 
 "I'm glad that you've given up your idea of teaching," 
 she said presently. "There's not much money in that, is 
 there?" 
 
 My father's own argument, and yet it seemed to grate 
 on me, coming from her. 
 
 "You think that's why I've given it up?" 
 
 "Isn't it?" 
 
 "Partly," I admitted. "But I want to be my own boss ; 
 to say and think what I please." 
 
 "Oh, that!" she said, as though that was a very minor 
 reason indeed. We looked at it differently, I thought. 
 But Bess and I were at odds on so many things that I 
 had come to accept it as the natural state of affairs. I 
 was in love with Bess, not with her views of life.
 
 96 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "And Hatherly's?" she asked softly. "It's a big 
 place?" 
 
 "Not too big for me." 
 
 "It's practical, at least," she decided. 
 
 I wonder. The thought struck me then, as it does now, 
 that perhaps what I saw in Hatherly's was merely a 
 chance for exercising my imagination in new lines, and 
 not an opportunity for serious work. 
 
 "You must be practical," she criticized. "Imagining 
 things doesn't get you anywhere. It hasn't got us very 
 much so far." 
 
 "I know." The last flicker of hope of her father's re- 
 turn from the Klondike had vanished that spring. "Let's 
 not talk of that to-night." 
 
 "But 
 
 I swung her away from me and stood with both hands 
 on her shoulders. "I'm a hard headed business man, with 
 no trace of sentiment in my cosmos," I proclaimed. "I 
 eat competitors alive. Men fear me. I bark short and 
 snappy orders and everybody runs. Are you satisfied?" 
 
 "Satisfied," she nodded, half smiling and half serious. 
 
 We went on down the narrow path which twisted down 
 between the ledges to the little cove at the tip of the 
 Point. The warm sand crunched beneath our feet as we 
 stopped. On the beach below us the waves whispered and 
 hissed in the dimness, the slender threads of foam on their 
 crests appearing mysteriously out of the blackness, flash- 
 ing a moment, and then vanishing. From far away over 
 the sea, as though from a low hung planet, came the 
 gleam of the light on Great Head; flash, flash, a pause 
 then a longer glow and the light disappeared, pulsing off 
 its number to the velvet sky and silken sea; the heart- 
 beat of the sea, marking the passage of eternity. Beat, 
 beat, pause; beat and the steady stars shone alone. 
 Night, the brooding expanse of quaker-gray sea and 
 Bess. God! to be young again! 
 
 Out of the darkness a darker shape materialized and
 
 FLOOD TIDE 97 
 
 stole slowly along, some belated launch returning to har- 
 bor, the red glow of the port light rising and falling in 
 slow rhythm. Suddenly the long beam of a searchlight 
 shot out from the slow moving mass, a faintly outlined 
 silver beam tipped with cold fire. It played about among 
 the anchored craft as the launch crept in and lost head- 
 way, resting for a moment on some craft, outlining every 
 shroud in pure white against the dusk, and then capri- 
 ciously sweeping on to the next. 
 
 Then with a swoop the beam swung over to the Point, 
 rested a moment, and then started swiftly toward us. 
 Rocks and ledges sprang into being, deeper shadows ap- 
 peared and disappeared as the light leaped along. It 
 reached the end of the little cove and came on more stead- 
 ily. It approached, bathed us for a moment in its white 
 radiance, and passed on. 
 
 As it passed in its careless search it left one impression 
 which will be mine as long as I breathe and after, if 
 the dead smile over dear memories. I remember the clear 
 silhouette of Bess's profile against the glare, framed in 
 the golden nimbus of her hair. I remember the soft flow- 
 ing lines of her dress, the rose in her hair, her cheek 
 curved in a smile. I remember catching my breath in- 
 voluntarily, as though I had touched on some mystery 
 beyond all my knowledge. 
 
 With an almost audible click the light vanished and 
 we were left in darkness, face to face with the eternal 
 mystery of the open sea.
 
 BOOK THE SECOND
 
 CHAPTER THE FIRST 
 
 THERE was a tradition about the warehouse that Hath- 
 erly had once been seen without his hat, a tradition whose 
 origin was lost in the mists of antiquity. Even old Jen- 
 kins, who had been with the house for over thirty years, 
 failed to recall the origin of this myth. Winter and 
 summer, in the office and in the warehouse, Hatherly and 
 his flat topped derby were one and inseparable. Jim 
 Chapman, the head teamster, declared that the "Old Man" 
 wore it even in the barber's chair. But this was merely 
 a theory, and Jim, although professing great disrespect 
 for Hatherly always jumped with the rest of us when 
 the hat came bobbing down the crowded aisles, preceded 
 by Hatherly's raucous shout of "Er-r-r, boy!" We were 
 all nameless, at Hatherly's ; everybody was "boy" pro- 
 nounced, as nearly as I can render it, "bwey!" in one 
 sharp explosive outburst. Add to this shout a triple 
 chin, a pudgy chin and two sharp eyes set in a wilder- 
 ness of fine wrinkles under the curled hat brim and you 
 have Hatherly to the life. 
 
 He also had a queer stenographic manner of speech 
 which was very difficult to follow. 
 
 "Er-r-r, boy!" he would say. "Order Lawrence 
 gone yet?" 
 
 A rustle of pages, and Carr would say that it had left 
 that morning. 
 
 "Right. Harrumph! Kick last time slow happen 
 again." 
 
 And then, stepping to the door and squinting up, he 
 would volunteer the information that it was "Funny 
 101
 
 102 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 weather." Rain, snow or cloudless skies, it was always 
 funny weather. Then, with the air of one with no time 
 to waste on idle gossip, he would bob away again, the 
 shout of "Bwey!" and the slam of the office door would 
 float back to us and we would be safe from interruption 
 for at least a quarter of an hour. 
 
 There were 'many times during that first year when I 
 hated Hatherly's, the entire wholesale grocery trade, and 
 all its connections with a deep and abiding hatred. I 
 didn't fit in. Worse still, I saw absolutely no chance of 
 getting ahead. I came to Hatherly's a young-man-in-a- 
 hurry, feeling that I had dropped four years and resolved 
 to recover my lost ground as soon as possible. But my 
 progress was damnably slow. I wonder now, not at the 
 slowness of my progress, but that Hatherly gave me the 
 chance of getting ahead at all. I had many squabbles 
 with the other clerks ; I never did quite get in touch with 
 them, even toward the last. I put myself on the defen- 
 sive; to avoid seeming stupid I pretended alertness; I 
 feigned complete understanding of muzzy explanations 
 and directions when I grasped only outlying fragments 
 of the idea. I made many mistakes ; more than once the 
 only way out of the maze seemed to chuck the entire af- 
 fair and enlist in a pick and shovel brigade. I would 
 go home to my stuffy little room over Beacon Hill con- 
 vinced that I was an abject failure, resolved to give Hath- 
 erly a week's notice in the morning. And then, lying 
 awake with a hot head, I would plan coups, imagine some 
 extraordinary situation in which my efforts would save 
 Hatherly from annihilation. But, just as Hatherly of- 
 fered me a partnership, I would remember that I had 
 sworn to be practical. And bump bump plop; my 
 punctured balloon bounced down the rose-marble steps of 
 romance and expired wheezily in the muddy gutter of 
 fact. I went to sleep wondering whether the Old Man 
 would fire me first thing in the morning or postpone 
 the pleasurable slaughter until afternoon.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 103 
 
 When matters became quite unendurable I walked over 
 to Cambridge and wept on the neck of Bones Joy. He 
 had been a frequenter of the old room in Franklin House, 
 had graduated with me and was pursuing an elusive A. M. 
 at Harvard. I usually came away comforted. Joy had 
 troubles of his own. Another relaxation was visiting 
 Luigi, the brown, car-ringed Italian who did odd jobs 
 about the warehouse. We talked Italian very stumbling 
 Italian on my part and Tuscan of swift, bird-like swoops 
 on Luigi's and drank white wine in his sand-scrubbed 
 room in a North Square four-decker. I was moved to 
 make charcoal sketches of Luigi and Giulia and the two 
 fat bambini spoiling them, however, in applying the fix- 
 ative and was considered a gran signor indeed. And 
 on Sundays Luigi and I went to the old Art Museum in 
 Copley Square and gesticulated eloquently over paintings 
 and statuary. . . . This was far from living on polenta 
 in Florence and bunking under a blue push cart adorned 
 with purple roses, but it was at least a passable substi- 
 tute. 
 
 But gradually I was weaned from these romantic col- 
 legiate ambitions. One by one these dim, bookish ab- 
 stractions which had been my horizon were blotted out by 
 realities. I had but one ambition, to get married, but 
 my chances seemed to recede as time advanced. Promo- 
 tion failed to come ; it loitered tantalizingly along the 
 way, circled up slowly and coyly, and no amount of dili- 
 gence on my part seemed to hasten its approach. As 
 for marrying on the salary I was getting, that was un- 
 thinkable ; Kendricks and Joy united to knock that out 
 of my head. 
 
 Kendricks was the man next above me; he was only 
 two years my senior but had already been at Hatherly's 
 seven years, had a wife and two children and was the 
 happiest and most self-satisfied mortal in seven states. 
 He was a red faced, loud voiced man, one of these men 
 who bustle about and make a great clatter over their
 
 104 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 work and don't do so much after all. During the lunch 
 hour he would perch on a crate near the shipping room 
 door, swinging his short legs while he swigged cold coffee 
 from a bottle and speared sandwiches from his lunch 
 bag; on such occasions he had a habit of holding forth 
 in an amazingly frank manner on his home life in gen- 
 eral and the benefits of matrimony in particular. I think 
 that marriage had been the one great event in his life ; 
 he never tired of talking of it. 
 
 "Ought to try it, Coffin," he declaimed, waving the bot- 
 tle. "Look at me. Bummed around lodging houses for 
 five years before I met Maggie. Thin? Lord bless you, 
 I've gained forty pounds since then. Always helling 
 around ; I was a wild young dog, I guess. There's nothing 
 like it. Makes a man of you." 
 
 The coffee bottle tilted toward the ceiling. 
 
 "Owe it all to her," he said with a hint of moisture 
 about his eyes perhaps some of the coffee went the wrong 
 way. "Come out and see us some time any time." 
 
 I went home with him one night. Kendricks lived out 
 in Somerville, and a long, tedious ride it was in the 
 crowded electric; Kendricks went into a trance over the 
 sporting sheet and took the conductor's number when 
 we were carried two blocks past his street. 
 
 "Go chase yourself, you fat sleep walker," snorted the 
 conductor as the car shot on into the darkness. 
 
 "Damned impudence," fumed Kendricks. "Report him 
 to-morrow, sure as shooting." 
 
 I made inarticulate noises of sympathy. 
 
 "Oh, well," he said more cheerfully, "we're home, any- 
 way. Great neighborhood, this, Coffin. Like out in the 
 country. Quiet. Only ten years ago it was all marsh 
 here ; now look at it, all built up. Down here three blocks 
 is where I live." 
 
 It might have been like the country for all I know, in- 
 asmuch as he failed to state what particular sylvan glade 
 it resembled. By this time I had become accustomed to
 
 FLOOD TIDE 105 
 
 this kind of suburb, but it impressed me that night as 
 something hideously ugly. Row after row of three-deckers, 
 all alike, alternated with partially bare house lots chastely 
 decorated with bill-boards and tin cans. Quiet it certainly 
 was not, save perhaps by comparison with Hatherly's; 
 there was a ceaseless restless murmur of street cars and 
 humanity, rising and falling but always audible. I 
 glanced down at the little man trotting along beside me 
 and wondered what he would think of Whitehaven's quiet 
 elm-shaded streets. An impenetrable wilderness, prob- 
 ably, and the wide reaches of the marsh would seem to 
 him as desolate as the vastness of interstellar space. I 
 was conscious of a sudden feeling of whimsical respect 
 for any one who could recognize his own home among all 
 these. 
 
 I enjoyed that evening, despite my jaundiced view of 
 this way of living. Mrs. Kendricks proved to be a cheer- 
 ful young woman with a dress which was imperfectly 
 hooked up the back; she presided over the supper table 
 and abetted Kendricks in an obvious conspiracy to dis- 
 guise the fact that there wasn't quite enough to go 
 around. Evidently she had not expected company. Af- 
 ter supper Kendricks showed me his stamp album while 
 Mrs. Kendricks washed the dishes ; later she brought in 
 the two youngsters to bid us good-night. 
 
 "Hugh and Cry, I call them," chuckled Kendricks, as 
 they smiled sleepily at us over their mother's shoulders. 
 The jest was new then. 
 
 Mrs. Kendricks sang for us after that, first protesting 
 that she was dreadfully out of practice, a contention 
 which she proved as she stumbled through a series of 
 those sentimental ballads which were so prevalent just 
 after the war with Spain. But she sang very well, in con- 
 trast to her performance on the piano; she sang in a low 
 and pleasant alto voice, and when Kendricks discovered 
 a tattered old book of songs which had stood the test of 
 time I settled back and enjoyed it thoroughly. Kendricks
 
 106 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 timidly discovered a voice and hummed a wordless accom- 
 paniment, not so much an accompaniment as a rich, deep 
 volume of sound against which his wife's clearer tones 
 stood out in silhouette. I thought of the closed piano in 
 the parlor at Whitehaven; I wondered if my father and 
 mother had ever sung like this in the evening, and alto- 
 gether I felt 'more happily miserable than I had for a 
 long time. 
 
 Toward ten o'clock the people in the flat above gave 
 evidences of appreciation. 
 
 "Let 'em pound," said Kendricks, and seemed disposed 
 to ignore the applause. "They gave the kids some rotten 
 fruit last week; serve 'em right to be kept awake. Get 
 back at 'em. . . . Try this one, Maggie." 
 
 Mrs. Kendricks agreed with him, to all outward ap- 
 pearances, but I understood that she had to live in the 
 same house with the people upstairs twenty-fours a day. 
 I made a great pretense of horror at discovering the late- 
 ness of the hour; Kendricks urged me to stay -"Stay all 
 night ; we can put you up on the couch" but I finally got 
 away. 
 
 I find it difficult to account for my state of mind that 
 night. At first I envied Kendricks. He was happy, sat- 
 isfied, content with little things, perhaps, but still very 
 content. His ambitions were fulfilled; he had a wife, 
 a home, children and a job. What more could he want? 
 Nothing. 
 
 I reached the car line as I came to this decision; a car 
 came rumbling along; I ran a few steps after it and then 
 stopped and let it pass. I dreaded going back to the 
 stuffy little room in the lodging house. I crossed over 
 and struck out into another side street. 
 
 As I went along, more than half envying Kendricks, I 
 took up the thread again. He wanted nothing more 
 but myself? I realized that I was not Kendricks and 
 never would be. I knew too much. I tried to imagine 
 myself as content with his lot, tried to put myself in
 
 FLOOD TIDE 107 
 
 his place and realized the impossibility of it. As Graves 
 had said, I was one of those who had discovered some- 
 thing 1 in life beyond small things, and once found it was 
 impossible to forget. Happiness for Kendricks was quite 
 another thing from happiness for Coffin. In Kendricks's 
 place I would be eating my heart out with unfulfilled am- 
 bitions. I knew that there was something better, while 
 Kendricks didn't. Perhaps he knew, perhaps he ignored 
 the existence of something better, knowing that it was 
 beyond his reach; perhaps he had known and forgotten. 
 I couldn't admit that there was anything beyond my 
 reach. I tried to imagine myself living as Kendricks did, 
 and still keeping my ambitions. I failed in that; I knew 
 myself too well. 
 
 Another consideration and a less selfish one forced it- 
 self upon me. I had some one to consider beside myself. 
 Would Bess like this sort of existence? I thought not. 
 Discontent stood out in her character like an underlined 
 word; she was discontented with Whitehaven and she 
 would scarcely be content to live sandwiched between two 
 other families, economizing, denying herself, even for 
 the wonderful privilege of welcoming me home every night. 
 And even Kendricks's manner of living was beyond me ; 
 in point of dollars and cents he was my superior. It 
 might be beyond me for years; to date I had seen no in- 
 dications of success. I was sure of nothing; least of all 
 was I sure of my own ability to succeed. There is no 
 despair so utterly hopeless as that of uncertain youth, 
 and I found a gloomy pleasure in going to the bottom of 
 the cup. 
 
 I must have wandered and thought for a long time, 
 for it was nearly midnight when I turned out into Massa- 
 chusetts Avenue and found the lights of Harvard Square 
 ahead of me. On a sudden impulse I made a detour to 
 pass the house where Bones Joy roomed ; I felt a need 
 of advice. I wanted to talk to some one; Bones was a
 
 108 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 good deal of a fool in many things, but even poor counsel 
 was better than none. 
 
 There was a light in his window, and I found him still 
 at work despite the lateness of the hour, sweating and 
 smoking and making notes over a big volume. 
 
 "Hello, Haroun-al-Coffin," he said in surprise. "How 
 fare the streets of Bagdad?" 
 
 "What do you know about marriage, Bonesy?" I asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Never tried it." 
 
 "What do you think of it, I mean?" 
 
 He considered my question with some show of amuse- 
 ment. No doubt there was a trace of the ridiculous in 
 calling on a man at midnight with such a query. 
 
 "As an institution, it has my approval," he concluded. 
 "It keeps people out of mischief." 
 
 "But seriously," I said impatiently. 
 
 He hesitated and tipped back his eye shade. 
 
 "I don't think of it," he said, and then repeated it in 
 a changed voice. "I don't think of it. I don't dare to 
 think of it." 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "We're all fools, you know ; you and I and all of us 
 myself most of all. I'm twenty-four, as fit for marriage 
 as I'll ever be, both mentally and biologically, and I don't 
 dare to think of marriage. I've had my choice between 
 an M. A. and a wife and I've chosen the M. A. Isn't that 
 being a fool? It's like hunger, you know; if you think 
 of food, you want it; if you don't think of it you don't 
 mind it so much. I have to keep the door locked on 
 everything but study; marriage is one of the things that 
 I've locked out. You've no idea how hard it is to keep 
 the door shut they beat on it till you can't think, some- 
 times. Are you up against the same problem?" 
 
 "Almost the same," I admitted. "But you must have 
 some definite idea of it."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 109 
 
 "I have. We all have a choice of three courses when 
 we come out of college. We can marry then, and give 
 hostages to fortune, we can contract with some girl to 
 live in a state which is neither courtship nor marriage un- 
 til it pleases the gods to smile on us or we can forget 
 it. There's no other way, beyond those three." 
 
 "I can't forget." 
 
 "Girl bothering you?" he asked sympathetically. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Gone very far?" 
 
 "I'm engaged," I admitted. 
 
 "I can't advise you ; I'm not fool enough for that. It's 
 your own problem. You can marry now, and scrub along 
 as best you can, or you can put it off until you're finan- 
 cially fit. It won't be pleasant, either way. Nor easy." 
 
 Joy failed to help me, save by reducing my problem 
 to a clear statement. As I rode home I tried to think of 
 some other way out and failed to find it. I had my choice 
 of three courses of two, for it was impossible to forget. 
 To live like Kendricks was impossible; there was no 
 course open but waiting. 
 
 It comes back to me now that one of the absurdities 
 which Graves and Langdon and I had cooked up between 
 us was a scheme for tagging people according to their 
 characteristics. I remember that we decided on a "No 
 Passing" sign for one of the instructors who was a no- 
 torious hard marker; another label was a "To Let" pla- 
 card, to be stenciled on the forehead of a persistent 
 flunker; still another was the "II est defendu de cracker'' 
 which we sewed to the overalls of our Canuck janitor, 
 who spluttered when he talked. 
 
 There was one sign which we failed to place "Pity 
 the Blind." I should have gone home with that sign hung 
 about my neck. Pity the Blind. 
 
 But still if we were all tagged as we should be, how 
 many of us would wear those three words !
 
 110 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 m 
 
 For the rest of the week I lived in blank despair. I 
 could imagine no future for myself save one filled with 
 denial and failure and Kendricksism. As an added in- 
 ducement to moroseness, in two days I received three wed- 
 ding announcements from fellows I had known at col- 
 lege, three fat, stiff-enveloped insults. I went home on 
 Sunday in a black mood of depression. 
 
 And Elizabeth laughed at me. 
 
 "Don't be foolish," she said. 
 
 "Perhaps you think it would be fun to live in Ken- 
 dricks's way," I said bitterly. 
 
 "I don't," she answered. "And I won't live that way. 
 And -" she hesitated endearingly "I don't think that 
 I'll have to." 
 
 The clouds lifted a little. 
 
 "But you're so silly," she went on. "You've been work- 
 ing only six months and all this because Hatherly hasn't 
 taken you into partnership !" 
 
 "That's not it, Bess. I might stay there six years and 
 not get ahead." 
 
 "You might," she agreed. She thought for a moment. 
 "But isn't it a good deal like college, after all? You used 
 to tell me about taking up new courses how you and 
 your precious Jerry Graves would plot out the whole 
 thing, get a good idea of the entire course and then pick 
 up the details as you went along. Wouldn't that be a 
 good idea at Hatherly's?" 
 
 "Perhaps," I conceded reluctantly. But I was loath 
 to discard my pessimism. "I've a notion to try some- 
 thing else, though," I went on. 
 
 "Don't," she said sharply. "I've seen that 
 
 I understood that she referred to her father. "I'll 
 hang on," I promised. 
 
 I came back to work still in the dumps. But Eliza- 
 beth had given me a new view of my apparent failure.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 111 
 
 I began to work methodically instead of by blind in- 
 spiration. No Jew ever worked harder than I did during 
 the months that followed I say it in all seriousness^ for 
 I have good reason to respect the race. Where my work 
 overlapped that of others I extended the boundaries; 
 where I was isolated I tried to fill in the gaps and come 
 in touch with all branches of the business. I developed 
 orderly habits. I remember that I even went so far as 
 to make out a weekly schedule with every hour accounted 
 for. A sense of humor kept me from following it, how- 
 ever. I struck up a friendship with a clerk of my own 
 age at Whiting's, a rival house, a man in almost the same 
 fix as myself. We compared methods and means used in 
 our two houses, criticized, weighed, and ultimately got 
 a fairly clear idea of the whole business through our 
 contrast. I began to read again, not the stuff I had 
 read in college, but books on business procedure, sales- 
 manship and technical stuff of that sort. The literature 
 of business was in its infancy then, but such as it was I 
 read all I could get my hands on. I dipped into ac- 
 counting and succeeded in understanding enough of it to 
 help me; I even read law for a time, until I realized that 
 I was wasting my time. I really worked as hard then 
 as I did during the later years of The Stores, although 
 it was blind work and in many ways diffused and misdi- 
 rected. And the queerest part of it was that I enjoyed 
 it. Where it would end I had no idea, but I had a feel- 
 ing that at least I was getting somewhere. I had begun 
 to realize that results follow work instead of coming 
 with it. 
 
 As ever, with knowledge came imagination. I had 
 once dreamed over the Divina Commedia and Gautier's 
 Voyage en Espagne; I now saw visions through the pages 
 of the Business Guide and Boyd's Handbook of Calcu- 
 lations. I began to look ahead and search out possibili- 
 ties, I began to theorize and carry things ahead into the 
 future. I think that before this I had regarded the whole-
 
 112 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 sale business solely as a means of making money; as I 
 increased my knowledge I realized that imagination may 
 find expression in terms of groceries as well as in dis- 
 tant lands, railroads and French literature. 
 
 I began to keep track of these theories of mine, set- 
 ting them down in an old college notebook which I brought 
 down from home, correlating and rearranging them and 
 gradually weaving them together. I shall come back to 
 this notebook later; it was the foundation of many 
 things. Where before I had theorized and forgotten, I 
 now dreamed and remembered. I found it a great help 
 to reduce theories and questions to black and white. 
 
 I had dreams of another sort which defy reduction to 
 black and white even now. I cannot tell you what I 
 thought of Bess during this period. We all experience 
 this intense formless desire. If you have not gone through 
 it no words of mine can make it clear to you ; if you have 
 and I put trust in that you know, and nothing that 
 I might say would make it more clear to you. I might 
 go on for pages, and unless by some happy chance I 
 touched upon some connection with your own experience 
 you would be no wiser than before. It is as common as 
 birth and death, and just as indescribable. 
 
 I thought of two things only, business and Bess, and 
 at times it was a question which subject engrossed the 
 greater part of my thoughts. Breakfast and dinner in 
 the stuffy dining room of the boarding house gave me 
 visions of another table with Bess across from me, in- 
 stead of the wrinkled countenance of old Eames as he 
 demonstrated the new patent hoist in Warehouse 3 with 
 two spoons and a knife. Then the displays in the store 
 windows "Bess would like that," I would think, and 
 squint at the price mark. Or perhaps she wouldn't like 
 it. When a person is always present in the back of one's 
 mind it takes very little to bring her to the front a 
 word caught from the passing crowd, or perhaps a couple
 
 FLOOD TIDE 113 
 
 wandering together in the Common as you go home over 
 Beacon Hill in the twilight. 
 
 IV 
 
 One memory which gives me trouble is the fact that 
 my love for Bess was stronger when she was absent than 
 when she was present. Absent, she was wholly desirable; 
 present I am afraid that at times I was almost indif- 
 ferent. 
 
 Perhaps this was because we quarreled. We disagreed 
 inevitably ; I try to recall a single trip home during which 
 we failed to squabble over something or other and I fail 
 in the attempt. I try to remember why we quarreled and 
 fail in that also. I always went home gladly, in a fine 
 fever of anticipation; I always came back bewildered and 
 angry, wondering why we found it so impossible to agree 
 and never solving the question. In time I came to ac- 
 cept it as the natural state of affairs, but I was always 
 somewhat hurt and bewildered and puzzled. I never put 
 my finger on the real cause of our many quarrels, I 
 never went deep enough for that. 
 
 These quarrels seem pitifully childish as I look back 
 on them. We fought over the smallest things. We were 
 never in the same mood. Sometimes I came home in a 
 mood of expansive futurism; "Oh, that!" she would say 
 as I propounded some new scheme. "I thought you'd 
 forgotten that weeks ago." Or she would listen in a half- 
 hearted way and then retail some petty town gossip in- 
 stead of commenting on my plans. Then I would sulk. 
 Usually I sulked and she flared up. If I criticized, my 
 taste was derided. An innocent but unfortunate remark 
 of mine about an old bicycle which she had acquired led 
 to one of our more serious quarrels. No doubt I was 
 very clumsy at times. My explanations only made mat- 
 ters worse ; "I'm sorry that I don't please you," she would 
 say, and after a time I tired of explaining that she did
 
 114 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 please me. Sometimes I suspect that she quarreled from 
 sheer nervousness. They were all petty differences, but 
 little things can be most damnably irritating. 
 
 I say that I cannot remember the causes of these quar- 
 rels. I can remember the cause of one, and I'm not sure 
 that it wasn't the cause of more than one. I worried 
 over it then ; T am still faintly puzzled by it. 
 
 I am puzzled because even now I am not sure how large 
 a part the cause of it should play in this story. I begin 
 to appreciate that I have been selfish all my life; per- 
 haps I am pursuing my usual policy in filling the double 
 role of hero and villain. . . . But what mistakes I have 
 made have been my own fault. As I plan it, Learoyd is 
 a sort of subsidiary villain; he appears, accomplishes his 
 fell purpose, and then disappears. Even the accompani- 
 ment of shivery music is denied him. Assuredly I am 
 selfish. 
 
 I remember that I had wanted to go driving that 
 Sunday afternoon. Bess had objected; it was too hot 
 and dusty. I had suggested that we borrow the Lily Lou 
 and go sailing; she had objected to that and given no 
 reason. There was only one method of locomotion left 
 that of walking. 
 
 "That's better than staying here," she agreed indiffer- 
 ently. 
 
 Our walk led us by devious ways to Coulter's wharf, the 
 summer gathering place of the Fire Worshipers. It was 
 quiet and pleasant here, despite a somewhat overpow- 
 ering odor of fish, and we had the place to ourselves. On 
 Sundays the captains and mates remained at home, 
 swathed in the New England Sabbath and the unaccus- 
 tomed glories of stiff shirts. Faintly across the harbor 
 came a hum of conversation from the yacht club landing, 
 with an occasional burst of laughter; counteracting and 
 frowning upon this came the drone of a hymn from the 
 Methodist chapel on Blake Street. We listened and 
 talked intermittently. Bess amused herself by criticizing
 
 FLOOD TIDE 115 
 
 my tastes in neckties ; I wore a particularly vehement one 
 that day, a combination of Scotch plaid and Italian sun- 
 set with purple thunderbolts as a minor motif. They 
 don't make ties like that now. One of the lost arts, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Then, shattering the hush and startling the drowsing 
 gulls into awkward, ungainly flappings, there came the 
 puff and roar of escaping steam from the float before 
 the club. One of the launches there sprang into life and 
 stole off down the harbor, a slim, graceful shape with a 
 glittering brass funnel above the gayly striped awning. 
 We watched it idly as it slid slowly along, turned, and 
 began to pick its way toward us down the harbor among 
 the anchored craft, like a fine lady with skirts nipped be- 
 tween two fingers passing disdainfully among these blunt- 
 bowed and prosaic craft. In the bow was a figure in white 
 duck; as the launch drew abreast of us and straightened 
 out in the open channel the figure turned toward us and 
 waved one arm in greeting. Bess waved in answer. The 
 long buff shape swerved in hesitation, as though to circle 
 about to the wharf, then straightened out again; there 
 was a louder burst of steam, a blacker cloud poured from 
 the funnel, and she gathered speed suddenly, settling down 
 on her stern and building up a steady arch of spray on 
 either side of the bow. 
 
 "Isn't she a beauty?" asked Bess. 
 
 "Indeed she is," I agreed. "But it's not good form to 
 wave at strangers when I'm around." 
 
 "I don't," she denied. "He's not a stranger." 
 
 "A friend of yours, then?" 
 
 "Phil Learoyd. You know I don't wave at strangers." 
 
 "I don't know him," I said shortly. 
 
 "But I do. He's Mr. Bradford's nephew," she ex- 
 plained with equal shortness. Then her tone changed. 
 "You ought to have a boat like that." 
 
 "On twelve a week? He probably pays his fireman 
 more than that. But there are lots of things I ought to
 
 116 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 have; unfortunately I have to earn them." Surely the 
 devil was in me. "She's quite an improvement on the old 
 Shadow or the Lily Lou, for that matter." 
 
 "Oh, stuff !" she exclaimed inelegantly. "You always 
 twist my meaning." 
 
 "I'm a poor interpreter, I know." 
 
 Bess displayed storm signals. "I hope you don't 
 think 
 
 "Did I say anything?" I defended, knowing very well 
 that I had. 
 
 "You insinuated." 
 
 "Don't be so sensitive, Bess." 
 
 She sniffed and was silent. 
 
 I was curious. "I don't seem to place this what was 
 his name? Learoyd? Funny name; can't say that I 
 like it. Have you known him very long?" 
 
 "I must start a diary," she said dryly. "Then I can 
 submit it to you every Sunday. It will save you lots of 
 worry." 
 
 "But Learoyd " I persisted. 
 
 "You seem very interested," she commented with as- 
 sumed indifference. "He invited Joan Hamilton and me 
 to go out with him this afternoon, if you must know." 
 
 "You should have mentioned it before. I could have 
 gone back to town as well as not this afternoon, you 
 know." 
 
 "I wish you had. But you see I couldn't very well ask 
 you to go." 
 
 I had the grace to remain silent. What a devil of an 
 old world it was ! A fellow worked all week, slaved and 
 sat up until midnight planning and then came home to 
 stage a cat and dog act with the best girl in the world. 
 I gazed morosely out over the harbor and wondered if 
 life was worth living after all. 
 
 "Well, why don't you go?" Bess asked. "It's not too 
 late." But she smiled as she said it, and the sun shone 
 again.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 117 
 
 "You know why I don't go," I answered. "I can't. 
 Let's forget it, Bess." 
 
 "Forgotten it is, then," she said readily. "I like to fight 
 with you because you get so red. Now Phil never fights." 
 
 "Oh, confound Phil!" I made a mental bet that I 
 could lick the tar out of Phil, and would, if I heard much 
 more of him. 
 
 The waves raised by the passage of the launch had just 
 reached us, slapping and gurgling among the piles below 
 and causing the masts of the anchored fleet to trace slow 
 arches against the sky; in so short a time had the little 
 tempest raised by her passage raged and fallen calm 
 again. 
 
 Learoyd and I met soon after that and failed to come 
 to blows. He was a slightly built chap, not any too good 
 looking, but with a ready smile which disarmed my na- 
 scent antagonism. He was a sort of protege of his 
 uncle's hence the launch and when I learned that he 
 was working in a Boston banking house for two-thirds of 
 my own salary the last shreds of my suspicion vanished. 
 The only thing to his discredit was the fact that he was 
 a Harvard man. . . . 
 
 I liked Learoyd, although undoubtedly I shouldn't 
 have. 
 
 Perhaps you fail to understand the real cause of trouble 
 between Bess and myself. You may expect a personal 
 villain, as folks once believed in a personal devil, hoof, 
 horns, tail and all. I believe in an impersonal devil, and 
 the impersonal devil in this case was my own imagination, 
 not Learoyd. 
 
 You see, Bess and I were alike in many characteristics, 
 and yet strangely unlike in the same things. We were 
 both dreamers, in common with all youth. I owe much 
 of the growth of my imagination to my father's influ- 
 ence ; I think the same holds true of Bess. 
 
 There the resemblance ends abruptly. Bess had been 
 disillusioned. Her father had dreamed dreams and seen
 
 118 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 visions and his life from first to last had been an abortive 
 effort to bring his vision to reality. Through his failure 
 Bess had come to distrust all dreams, to exalt practicality 
 and regard imagination as a sign of weakness. It was 
 a logical and inevitable conclusion. I have no way of de- 
 termining her definition of success at this time, save that 
 it must have fceen diametrically opposed to my own defi- 
 nition. I saw failure as the grasping of present and ma- 
 terial ends ; failure meant the denial of the future and, 
 by corollary, success was the denial of to-day for the 
 possibilities of to-morrow. 
 
 In contrast to Bess, I had known no disillusion. Bess 
 had come to demand practical results ; I was still content 
 with possibilities which I called inevitabilities. These 
 creations of my mind would inevitably come into being 
 with time. Bess had seen an endless succession of her 
 father's sawdust-stuffed kings and queens stripped of 
 their finery and consigned to the ashbarrel, to be suc- 
 ceeded by other creations no more real, but possessing 
 the beauty of novelty. She had seen the stage of imagi- 
 nation in its naked reality, with its pasteboard clouds and 
 castles acknowledging their artificiality in the shameless 
 light of failure. She was "half-sick of shadows," my own 
 as well as those of others. I had the realitjr of work; 
 she had nothing but the dissatisfaction of inaction. 
 
 I think that in a shadowy way I was aware of this dif- 
 ference even then. Bess was pleased when I settled down 
 to work; I remember that I was more than a little puz- 
 zled by her sudden kindness and unwilling to admit that 
 I knew the cause of it. It must have been this same par- 
 tial appreciation which kept me from speaking of the 
 futures which I had discovered in the wholesale business. 
 I spoke of them, but spoke vaguely. I remember that I 
 made the excuse that I wanted to surprise her. 
 
 My optimism and futurism must have been an ever 
 present source of irritation to Bess. It was the cause of 
 all these minor differences ; they were smoothed over and
 
 FLOOD TIDE 119 
 
 ignored as soon as possible, but they left tiny shafts of 
 discord sticking in our memories. 
 
 I had been at Hatherly's over a year before rumors of 
 a change began to circulate about the place. Like most 
 rumors, these were round-robin affairs ; no one had started 
 them, every one had heard the news from some one else, 
 and every one had his own special brand of rumor. We 
 were going to merge with the Kingsley Company ; we 
 were to sell out to a New York house; Hatherly was go- 
 ing to abandon the business, close up shop, and leave us 
 all to scrub along as best we could. 
 
 "And then where'll we be?" queried Carr gloomily. "I 
 tell you I'm not going to stay to find out." But inas- 
 much as Carr worked himself up to the point of giving 
 notice every six weeks and never did his opinion was 
 discounted. 
 
 Hatherly's actions gave some color of truth to these 
 rumors. He made frequent trips to New York, to the 
 vast interest of the lunch hour meetings in the boiler 
 room. Carr became more dismally prophetic than ever, 
 finally resigned, and was told not to make a dam' fool 
 of himself. Kendricks, maddened by Carr's persistent in- 
 sinuations, screwed up courage enough to ask Hatherly 
 how things were in New York. He received the informa- 
 tion that they had "funny weather" down there. 
 
 These vague rumors had other results beyond giving 
 us something to talk about. A closer application to work 
 became evident. Men who had made a point of showing 
 independence by coming in at quarter past eight were 
 now at their desks ahead of time ; instead of skipping out 
 ahead of time they dawdled during the afternoon and 
 made a great parade of staying overtime. Hatherly was 
 consulted frequently about minor matters, to his great 
 annoyance. I suppose the idea was to attract his at-
 
 120 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 tention to the unflagging zeal with which the work was 
 being carried on ; if there was a change coming that seeemd 
 a certain way of securing promotion or of avoiding be- 
 ing fired. Perhaps the latter was the real incentive. 
 
 Then Hatherly, as Carr expressed it, went "stark, star- 
 ing, raving mad." He came back from a particularly 
 long absence and shook up the entire establishment. 
 
 We were moved about from one department to another 
 without apparent reason and with much resultant con- 
 fusion. The old orderly progression of seniority was 
 broken up, save in a few minor instances ; Carr, who had 
 been on the books for five years, threatened again to leave 
 when he was transferred to the stock-keeper's desk; Ken- 
 dricks went on the books and lost ten pounds before he 
 got back to his old job again. The indignation meeting 
 in the boiler room during the noon hour became anar- 
 chistic in tone. 
 
 I really enjoyed these frequent changes of employment. 
 They made a welcome break in the monotony. Where 
 before I had tried to understand the work of others from 
 the outside I now had a chance to try it for myself. 
 Thanks to my inquiries, I already had a fairly complete 
 knowledge of these other jobs; when I went to a strange 
 part of the warehouse I not only increased my knowledge 
 of that particular part of the work but also tried to 
 improve on what I found. I made changes to suit myself, 
 simplified matters after my own ideas. Then, as the next 
 shift came, I had to explain things to the man who fol- 
 lowed me. I remember that when Gardiner came back 
 to his old position of stockman on the second floor he 
 first sighed in relief at getting back to something he un- 
 derstood and then bellowed in agony as he found his cher- 
 ished methods supplanted by strange ones. 
 
 One of the things I put through was the printing of 
 our minor quotations on return post cards, instead of 
 the single cards which we had used before, a change which
 
 FLOOD TIDE 121 
 
 cut down the printer's bill appreciably. Hatherly discov- 
 ered this. 
 
 "Who done this?" he queried, waving one of the cards. 
 
 Blake, who happened to be nearest him, squinted at 
 the offending pasteboard and jerked his thumb toward 
 me. 
 
 "Coffin," he said dryly. 
 
 "So? This yours, boy?" 
 
 I admitted my guilt and handed him the printer's bills 
 for the past two months. He stared at them, cleared his 
 throat as he calculated the saving, and then grunted his 
 approval. 
 
 "Good. But apt to mess 'em in tearing 'em," he quali- 
 fied. "Better use those big paper shears." 
 
 During this period of shifting he was alert for any 
 change, eternally buzzing about from one part of the 
 building to another, questioning, suggesting, criticizing, 
 and explaining. Ultimately most of the older men got 
 back to their original positions and stayed there, after 
 having proved themselves hopelessly unable to grasp new 
 conditions and strange requirements. But I still came 
 to work every morning uncertain whether I would be sent 
 out collecting or assigned to help Jenkins get out the 
 statements. 
 
 Wherever I was sent I was sure of one thing. At some 
 time of the day Hatherly would surely come around. 
 
 "How they coming now?" he would ask jerkily. "All 
 right? Eh? Lessee what you're doing." 
 
 Sometimes he was pleased, more frequently he was not. 
 I had many arguments with him. 
 
 VI 
 
 These rumors persisted so long without proof that 
 they were anything more than rumors that at last I lost 
 all faith in them. If Hatherly had ever had anything 
 in mind it had failed. I worked on as usual, carried on
 
 122 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 by inertia and received one advance in salary. This 
 brought me almost into Kendricks's class. There were 
 times when I saw the whole business of life in the darkest 
 possible colors, but I had found work an antidote for these 
 and they seldom lasted long. 
 
 I came to work one Monday morning in the midst of 
 an unusually black cloud. I had been home over Sun- 
 day, and, as ever, Bess and I had quarreled over some- 
 thing or other, some petty little difference which was not 
 important in itself but was enough to send me off out of 
 tune with everything. I overslept that morning and 
 wandered into Hatherly's an hour late; whether school 
 kept or not was a matter of no moment to me. I had spent 
 the preceding week in planning out a new method of keep- 
 ing track of orders ; Hatherly had looked it over on 
 Saturday and condemned it because of the initial expendi- 
 ture. I seemed doomed to go on without end, building 
 up things for others to knock over, and ultimately ending 
 where I had begun. 
 
 "The Old Man has been after your scalp this morn- 
 ing," said Sam Carr. "He's asked for you four times 
 and more." 
 
 "Did he say what he wanted?" I asked without interest. 
 
 Carr shook his head. 
 
 "No idea. Probably wants your advice on something." 
 
 "Confounded old nuisance," I said, shedding my coat. 
 "I may have to fire him after all." 
 
 Carr looked up with a grin and started to answer ; his 
 face changed suddenly and horribly. I turned, and found 
 Hatherly behind me. 
 
 "Got here, did you?" he asked grimly. "Looking for 
 you. Think you're working in a bank? Who's this you're 
 going to fire?" 
 
 "My valet," I answered smoothly. "He didn't get me 
 up on time this morning." 
 
 He glared at me for an awful moment. Carr went off
 
 FLOOD TIDE 123 
 
 into a paroxysm of coughing which left him purple be- 
 hind the ears. 
 
 "Humph !" he snorted finally. "Want to see you. Come 
 on." 
 
 I marched away behind him ; over my shoulder I caught 
 a glimpse of Carr, looking after me with his mouth open 
 as though he had been caught midway in enunciating 
 the word "Fired!" The others looked around as I passed 
 behind them; only old Jenkins failed to take any interest 
 in my passage. I felt remarkably like a victim led to 
 slaughter, and at the same time I didn't care. Fired or 
 not, it made no difference to me. 
 
 I felt less comfortable when the door of the inner office 
 closed behind us. It was a big barn of a room, this inner 
 sanctum, and I never felt quite at ease there. I stood 
 shifting from foot to foot while Hatherly creaked to and 
 fro in his swivel chair. I wished that he'd hurry and 
 have it over with. 
 
 "Siddown," he said suddenly, and motioned me to a 
 chair facing him. "Y'know, I've been watching your work 
 lately." 
 
 I knew it. He fixed me with a shrewd and speculative 
 eye; I made motions of answering and found my throat 
 unexpectedly dry. But he decided to postpone the blow. 
 
 "General opinion is that I'm crazy, ain't it?" he said, 
 with a wave toward the outer office. "Shifting you peo- 
 ple around and making a hurrah's nest of the place? 
 Huh? Well, I'm not; not by a long shot." 
 
 Before I could shift my helm to follow him he was off 
 on another tack. 
 
 "You been New York, Coffin? Eh?" 
 
 "Once," I admitted, and by sheer hypnosis I dropped 
 into his clipped fashion of speech. "Football game 
 three years ago stayed over one night." 
 
 "Know the place like a book, I suppose?" 
 
 I detected a humorous cast among the wrinkles about 
 his eyes. Perhaps Carr had made a bad guess, after all.
 
 124 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Hardly," I answered. "Not much chance to look 
 around. Had a headache from the car smoke." 
 
 He actually smiled. Then he frowned ferociously. 
 
 "I er-r, the house has bought out Brown Brothers, 
 down there. Ever hear of them?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 I admitted my ignorance and all thoughts of being fired 
 passed out of my mind. - 
 
 "Thought not," .he said, with a note of satisfaction. 
 "Small house old dry rot. Didn't expect it, did you? 
 Surprise you? Eh?" 
 
 "There's been a rumor -" I began. 
 
 "I know; can't keep 'em from talking," he said impa- 
 tiently. "None of their business, but they know more 
 about it than I do. How would you like to go down 
 there?" 
 
 "You mean to take charge?" I asked, my head in a 
 whirl. 
 
 He stared at me a moment. 
 
 "Not so fast, not so fast," he said. "That's Jenkins's 
 j ob. You'll go with him if you want to. Help him along 
 big job for one man. Jenkins is pretty old, you know. 
 Hide-bound. Good man, but slow. . . . Well?" 
 
 "Glad of the chance, sir," I managed to say. 
 
 "All right, then," he said, and was inspired to a sud- 
 den burst of confidence. "Had my eye on you quite a 
 while. Don't like college men, as a rule ; changed my opin- 
 ion. Always asking 'why?' You and Jenkins make a 
 good team, I think; wouldn't trust either of you alone. 
 Jenkins is conservative. Knows the business, though, 
 better than either you or I. You're the counter-weight. 
 See? Keep the clock steady. What?" 
 
 I stumbled over some sounds which were intended to 
 express my appreciation of the chance. He stopped me. 
 
 "No thanks; you'll be on trial. Nothing permanent 
 about it. Make good or come back. I'm going down 
 with you next week, say ; give you a start. After that 
 on your own feet. Better see Jenkins ; lots he can tell
 
 FLOOD TIDE 125 
 
 you. You don't know it all yet. See the both of you 
 to-night. Talk it over then. That's all." 
 
 He turned back to his desk, then swung around as I 
 still lingered. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 "I'd like an hour or so off," I explained. 
 
 "Whaffor?" he asked suspiciously. 
 
 "If I cheer and carry on around here " 
 
 He caught the contagion of my grin. 
 
 "Get out of here," he growled, and dismissed me with 
 a lordly gesture. 
 
 vn 
 
 By some superhuman effort I managed to keep from 
 cheering. I even tried to look solemn as I closed the door 
 and was successful in the effort until the sight of Carr's 
 questioning and commiserating face sent me off into an 
 absurd grin which obscured my eyes and lifted my ears. 
 I couldn't have kept in very long, for Jenkins gave it 
 away by publicly congratulating me. We spent the rest 
 of the day together, Jenkins and I, and that night Hath- 
 erly took us home with him and we planned far into the 
 night. 
 
 In one other respect I was more successful in self- 
 repression. I wrote to Bess, an absurd letter full of su- 
 perlatives, wrote and read it over and then destroyed it. 
 I decided that I wanted to see how she received the news. 
 It was hard work, but I managed to hold myself down 
 until Saturday. 
 
 It was worth the effort. 
 
 "No!" she said, and surveyed me with one eyebrow 
 raised half in doubt and half in belief. I had found her 
 kneeling over a flower bed in the little garden behind the 
 house, very grubby and disheveled and stained with 
 mold. 
 
 I "crossed my throat and hoped to die." Belief re-
 
 126 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 placed doubt as she remained kneeling, looking up at 
 me. She clapped her hands as she dropped her trowel 
 and struggled to her feet. 
 
 "That means " she said excitedly. 
 
 "That I'm not a failure so far," I completed. 
 
 "As though you ever were," she smiled in reproach. 
 "It means a lot to you." 
 
 "And yourself?" 
 
 "I come in on it, too," she admitted, "but I'm glad 
 because it's you." 
 
 She stared at me in sudden dismay. 
 
 "But New York!" she said. "You won't be home so 
 often!" 
 
 "All the more welcome when I do come," I maintained 
 stoutly. 
 
 "That's so. ... Does it pay to be practical?" 
 
 "Why yes," I answered. This was a faint echo of 
 our quarrel of the Sunday before. But I was far from 
 sure. Had I really been looking ahead or had this suc- 
 cess come from short sighted application? 
 
 "But I haven't been paid yet," I concluded. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" she wailed a moment later. "I've rubbed 
 dirt all over your coat and my hair's coming down and 
 I don't dare touch it !" 
 
 I fixed it for her as best I could and then had to re- 
 hearse the whole tale again; how I had lost faith in the 
 vague rumors and still kept on plugging, and how I had 
 fully expected to be discharged when Hatherly called me 
 into his office. 
 
 "He wouldn't dare," asserted Bess confidently. 
 
 I made the most of my triumph. Mrs. Alden appeared 
 in the midst of my recital and rather spoiled it by refus- 
 ing to enthuse. 
 
 "That's good." she said, upon hearing the news. "Did 
 you water the plants, Elizabeth?" 
 
 "Plants? Pooh!" said Bess ungraciously. "Go on; 
 what did Mr. Hatherly say then?"
 
 FLOOD TIDE 127 
 
 But Mrs. Alden showed a gradual increase in warmth 
 as I went on, not a very satisfactory sort of interest, 
 to be sure, but still better than indifference. She evinced 
 an irritating interest in the practical side of my promo- 
 tion, not quite asking questions but leaving obvious op- 
 portunities for a statement of my financial condition. 
 I proved willfully blind to these opportunities ; to say 
 that my salary would be the same as before which was 
 the truth would have taken off the fine edge of success. 
 It was enough for me that I had been promoted to new 
 responsibilities. 
 
 My father received the news calmly enough, although 
 he was as happy over it as myself. In his presence I be- 
 came more modest. 
 
 "I'm only on trial, of course," I said finally. 
 
 "We're always on trial," he answered, "although some- 
 times it does seem that the jury has been bribed." 
 
 I recall that he was a bit surprised at the suddenness 
 of my promotion. 
 
 "But you saw something of the kind coming, I suppose," 
 he concluded, "and when it came you were ready for it." 
 
 "It's been in the air for a long time." 
 
 "Thought so. It pays to look ahead and imagine 
 things, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Why yes," I answered, but I hesitated a little longer 
 than I had in making the same answer to Bess's ques- 
 tion. She said that it paid to be practical; my father 
 said that it paid to be visionary. One must be right 
 but which? 
 
 That is one question which I have never solved.
 
 CHAPTER THE SECOND 
 
 HEAVEN save me from another such job as we found 
 at Brown Brothers ; one such experience is enough for a 
 lifetime. Ever since then I have had a horror of remak- 
 ing and remodeling. I date my first gray hair from that 
 period. 
 
 Hatherly went down with us. I remember still the sink- 
 ing of my heart as we surveyed the place from across 
 the street; despite Hatherly's warning I had expected 
 something better than a dingy front with unwashed win- 
 dows. I expected that a New York house, even though 
 afflicted with dry rot, would surpass a provincial Bos- 
 ton establishment. We went on a tour of inspection, to 
 an accompaniment of stares and whispered exchanges, 
 Hatherly very voluble and cheerful in his fragmentary 
 way, Jenkins and I plodding dismally behind him. We 
 ended at the office. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of it?" jerked Hatherly, 
 cocking one leg over the arm of his chair. 
 
 Jenkins looked at me. I looked at Jenkins. Words 
 failed us. 
 
 "Out of date and all that," Hatherly went on. "But 
 good metal; needs polishing, that's all. Eh?" 
 
 Jenkins answered indirectly. "Any insurance on the 
 place?" 
 
 Hatherly nodded. 
 
 "Fully covered?" 
 
 "Certainly. Think I'm a fool?" 
 
 "I'm undecided. In your place I'd buy a barrel of 
 128
 
 FLOOD TIDE 129 
 
 kerosene and a box of matches. Leave the rest to the 
 rats enough of them, by the looks of things." 
 
 Hatherly snorted. 
 
 "You'll find that the easiest way out," argued Jenkins. 
 
 "Oh, not so bad as that," encouraged Hatherly. "Good 
 stuff here, but dusty damned dusty." He waved his 
 arm inspiringly and sneezed. "Just dig into it clean 
 it up. You'll be surprised." 
 
 That was all the satisfaction we got from him. He 
 hemmed and harrumphed and "bwey"-ed about for a 
 while and then rushed off to catch a train back to Boston. 
 We envied him. 
 
 Jenkins and I stared at each other in discouragement. 
 
 "I never thought I'd keep a museum in my old age," he 
 said finally. "That's what it is a confounded, billy-be- 
 damned museum. And we've lost our chief freak." 
 
 I laughed. "The Old Man?" 
 
 "He's in his second childhood," said Jenkins viciously. 
 
 "Well, we're here and it's too late to back out," I said. 
 "Let's go out and have another look at the wax figures." 
 
 Hatherly's theory of counterweights was good as far 
 as it went, but it worked out in a way which he scarcely 
 could have anticipated. Instead of Jenkins acting as a 
 check on me, the situation was reversed. For the first 
 week or so Jenkins poked about with an expression of 
 horror on his fine old face. Some of the methods of busi- 
 ness were entirely new to us, others we had discarded long 
 ago, but for all of them he expressed unqualified disap- 
 proval. The conflict between us came when we finished 
 our survey and started to make changes. Jenkins's idea 
 was to make the place conform in every respect with the 
 Boston house. 
 
 We fought good Lord, how we did fight ! I went home 
 at night with a sore throat and argued in my sleep. Jen- 
 kins wanted to discard everything with which he was un- 
 familiar. I could see that a good many of the ways of 
 doing business were superior to the old way with which
 
 130 F^OOD TIDE 
 
 we both knew; Jenkins couldn't see it. He had a vast 
 fund of reminiscence which served him in place of argu- 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes, we tried that in '89," he would assert. "Or was 
 it '87? The year they had the fire next door. . . . '89, 
 that's it. Fellow named Humphreys suggested it. It 
 didn't work at all, as I remember it." 
 
 Then I would expound and explain until at last he gave 
 in through sheer weariness. 
 
 "Try it, if you want it, then," he would assent. "But 
 it didn't work then and it won't work now." 
 
 I saw to it that it worked now. It had to work. I 
 was on trial. 
 
 Hatherly had admitted that Brown Brothers was full 
 of dry rot. He hadn't exaggerated. It was the old story 
 of decay; no new blood and absentee managership. The 
 fact that it held together at all was an ever fresh source 
 of wonder to me. For years the place had gone along in 
 one rut, losing customers only by death and gaining new 
 ones only by accident. The warehouse was filled with 
 pensioners ; a few of the men worked and the rest lived 
 on memories of the good old days. They nearly broke 
 my heart. I know of no more discouraging task than 
 trying to inject vitality into a man who has been a mental 
 corpse for a decade. They looked at me, and sniffed, 
 and went on doing their work in the same old doddering 
 way. 
 
 We had a grand house cleaning after the first month 
 that is, Hatherly and Jenkins concocted a list of men 
 who were obviously useless, then Hatherly took himself 
 back to Boston and Jenkins left it to me to do the firing. 
 I did it as diplomatically as possible and referred their 
 wails and complaints to Jenkins. Then he threw them 
 back at me. 
 
 "These gentlemen " he appealed, over the heads of 
 
 the group which surrounded him. They all turned and 
 looked at me unfavorably.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 131 
 
 I picked out one from among the group a man with 
 a bay window and a shameless nose. "Do you really need 
 this job?" 
 
 He was highly indignant at my imputation of poverty. 
 
 "Then is there any good reason why we should keep 
 you?" 
 
 "I have been with this house for over twenty years, 
 young man," he snorted. "I brought the house the busi- 
 ness of Simpson and Company, a matter of forty thou- 
 sand and year, and 
 
 "And for the past five years they've averaged less than 
 four thousand. Why?" 
 
 "That is not my affair." 
 
 "I see. You've been living on past performances." 
 
 He eyed me in utter loathing. Then he turned to Jen- 
 kins. "I appeal to you, sir, as one gentleman to another." 
 I was no gentleman, apparently. 
 
 Poor old Jenkins ! He tugged at his lower lip and 
 
 looked at me dubiously. "Perhaps we might find " he 
 
 began. 
 
 I lost the last shreds of my patience. "You complained 
 that this was a museum," I reminded him. "Now you 
 want to turn it into a cripples' home. We're here to re- 
 build this place after these men have let it fall apart. 
 We can't rebuild with old timber. You know it and I 
 know it." 
 
 I went away magnificent Napoleonic. I had spoken. 
 
 "I'm sorry, gentlemen," I heard Jenkins say with new 
 vigor, "but it can't be helped." 
 
 He came to me later, mournfully. "I hate to fire 
 people," he confided. "They never understand." 
 
 "That bunch will get over it," I said, with the cal- 
 losity of youth. "None of them need to work. Old 
 Rogers the one with the side whiskers was telling me 
 last week about the block of houses he owns. The rest 
 are all like him. They were hopeless." 
 
 "Well we'll see how things go," said Jenkins
 
 132 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I look back on these early New York days and realize 
 that there is something lacking. I suppose I should say 
 that New York impressed me, that it inspired my im- 
 agination. Really it did nothing of the sort. During 
 the first few months I was impressed by nothing save the 
 endless succession of new problems which confronted me 
 at Brown Brothers ; it was weeks before I knew anything 
 of the city beyond the way between the rooming house 
 and the place where I worked. I never explored New 
 York, as I had Boston, perhaps because I had no Ken- 
 dricks and Luigi to lead me. Even later, when Marks 
 and I began to go about town, the city failed to impress 
 me; I had lost the spirit of inquiry and fallen into the 
 habit of taking things for granted. 
 
 I was blind to the inspiration of New York because I 
 had brought my inspiration with me. The material in 
 the old note book which I had kept for over a year began 
 to cohere about one central idea ; I was insensible to all 
 impressions not directly connected with it. 
 
 The mustering out of the Ancients left us short handed 
 for a time ; all told, we got rid of nearly a quarter of the 
 force on the charge of fossilism. Those who remained 
 were up to the usual Hatherly standard, not destined to 
 set the world on fire, but still good and capable men. 
 There were a few notable exceptions ; Jimmy Golderick, 
 who manifested a persuasive genius in bringing in settle- 
 ments of old accounts ; Carter Hayes, that attenuated 
 live wire of high conductivity, and meek little Borden 
 whose life long passion for system and more system came 
 to the surface soon after our advent. 
 
 And there was Marks, of course. . . . 
 
 That sentence in itself is a complete description of 
 Marks. He was in a class by himself. Put him down in 
 any group, attempt to describe the group, and you find
 
 FLOOD TIDE 133 
 
 yourself tacking that on the end: "And there was 
 Marks." He failed to classify. 
 
 I must have noticed him in a dim sort of way during 
 the first few weeks at Brown Brothers. Jenkins and I 
 even talked him over and failed to come to any definite 
 conclusion, save that he was a good man. But we were 
 appraising all the force then ; this was prior to the house 
 cleaning. After the eviction of the leisure class he came 
 more and more into our notice. 
 
 Jenkins always claimed that he discovered Marks. I 
 dispute that claim; I think that Marks discovered him- 
 self. But he would have come to light sooner or later, 
 even if I had not gone in search of Jenkins that day and 
 found him deep in discussion with Marks. They were 
 vastly interested in some sort of chart on Marks' desk, 
 so interested that I stood behind them unobserved. 
 
 "And in the third column " said Jenkins, and 
 
 scratched his head in an effort of memory. 
 
 "The shipping room check?" suggested Marks. 
 
 "So it is; so it is. That gives us a double check, you 
 see. No chance of a slip-up, with the office check on this 
 other sheet." He turned and saw me. "How's this, 
 Coffin? You remember that you were complaining over 
 tracing orders? I've figured out something here; look 
 it over." 
 
 We had had a vast amount of trouble in keeping track 
 of orders in their progress through the house; previous 
 to the house cleaning three of the pensioners had made 
 it their duty to trot about and keep things moving, cre- 
 ating endless confusion and deluding no one save them- 
 selves by their show of industry. The system which had 
 obtained at the Boston place proved of no use under these 
 new conditions. After two or three abortive attempts at 
 solving the problem I had given it up. 
 
 "This here is a perforation," explained Jenkins. "It's 
 two sheets, really, both printed the same. Check off 
 your order in this column on both sheets ; then one goes
 
 134 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 to the office and the other to the truckman. Now then 
 how did I say that we were to arrange the printed list, 
 Marks?" 
 
 "After the stock list." 
 
 "That's it. Now " and he went on to explain his 
 
 improved method in detail. Marks cut in now and then, 
 to remind him of some feature which he had slurred over. 
 As the explanation proceeded I looked at Jenkins with 
 new respect. 
 
 "Well?" he said triumphantly. 
 
 "It's good," I said emphatically. 
 
 "Isn't it?" he crowed delightfully. "Oh, I may be an 
 old duffer and all that, but I can think up something once 
 in a while." He was obviously tickled to death at having 
 beaten me in my own province of improvement. "Any 
 suggestions?" he challenged. 
 
 "Not a one," I answered truthfully. 
 
 "I'm a son of a gun when I get started," he bragged. 
 "We'll get some system into this old ark yet." 
 
 He danced off, to have the sheets typewritten and sent 
 to the printer. I watched him, and wondered if his ob- 
 jections to new methods had been part of a pose after all. 
 
 As I turned, Marks winked at me, slowly and deliber- 
 ately. I understood. 
 
 "That was your idea, then." 
 
 "Why not entirely," he replied. "Jenkins suggested 
 that column heading." 
 
 "Which is the one objectionable feature. But how 
 in the deuce did you get him to adopt it? If I had sug- 
 gested it we'd have fought like two cats in a bag." 
 
 He laughed, and ran his fingers through his thick mop 
 of pepper and salt hair. "The harder a person is to 
 drive, the easier he is to lead. Now you you go at him 
 rather " 
 
 "Bull headed," I supplied, as he hesitated. 
 
 "Exactly. You see how it works? If I had called you 
 bull headed you would object naturally. That was the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 135 
 
 idea I had in mind, but I let you suggest it yourself. The 
 same with Jenkins. Lead him along until a thing is under 
 
 his nose " He stopped, smiled, and shrugged his 
 
 shoulders. 
 
 "And he discovers it for himself," I completed. "But 
 you don't get the credit." 
 
 "No?" he queried, examining a pen point with great 
 interest. "I'm not sure." 
 
 He turned back to his work again and I went away 
 wondering whether my method was right after all. Still 
 wondering, I turned into the inner office, and found Jen- 
 kins pensively contemplating the sheets which he and 
 Marks had worked over. He made one or two changes, 
 frowned over them, and then erased them. 
 
 "Do you know," he said slowly, "we've got some con- 
 foundedly smart men about this place? I'm just begin- 
 ning to find it out. . . ." 
 
 I find many of my memories of this time obscured by 
 the figure of Marks. He soon became a figure of impor- 
 tance about the office and warehouse. The fact that he 
 was a Jew was against him at first, but not for long. We 
 forgot it. Neither physically nor mentally was there 
 any connection between Marks and the rest of his race; 
 he was neither self-assertive, bustling, nor grasping. 
 When I first knew him he must have been about thirty- 
 five, already gray about the temples he was silver haired 
 at forty short, lean, and discouraged. His only physi- 
 cal peculiarity was a slight waddle in his walk, a barely 
 perceptible out turning of the foot and flexion of the 
 knee. 
 
 At thirty-five he was an admitted failure. How or 
 why he came to Brown Brothers' moribund establishment 
 I don't know ; I do know that before he came there he had 
 made three starts in the grocery business and failed each 
 time. In each case his failure had come from no fault 
 of his own; he once summed it up as a succession of
 
 136 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "crooks, fire, and competition" the battle, murder and 
 sudden death of the business Litany. 
 
 He became indispensable. Neither Jenkins nor I knew 
 the retail end of the business as Marks did, although we 
 were both far ahead of him in knowledge of the wholesale 
 end. We came to rely on his judgment more and more; 
 he became a frequent third in our conferences. 
 
 When we had the warehouse and office running more 
 smoothly or rather less jerkily we turned our attention 
 to building up the trade. Here Marks was invaluable. I 
 bullyragged Hatherly into buying an automobile one of 
 these affairs of the Dark Ages, with a toboggan prow 
 and the engine under the seat. She steered with a tiller 
 and always made heavy weather of it. In this panting 
 and erratic go-cart Marks and I made the rounds of the 
 town, getting into personal touch with our customers, 
 reviving old ones and looking for new business. It was 
 interesting work, skipping from one little store to an- 
 other, meeting men of all sorts and conditions. There 
 was a larger foreign element among them than I had 
 found in my collecting trips about the Boston territory; 
 Greeks, Jews, Germans, one Syrian place, and a sprinkling 
 of old line Yankees. In one respect they were all alike ; 
 each had his special form of complaint and each had his 
 own ideas about our business. They all took a great 
 interest in the rejuvenation of Brown Brothers. For a 
 while I tried to argue with these people, but I soon gave 
 that over and accepted each suggestion as though it was 
 entirely new following Marks' method. 
 
 "You're right, Mr. Pinsky ; we do need another truck," 
 I would say, as Pinsky, up in the Bronx, followed us 
 out to the sidewalk to press home his suggestions about 
 quicker delivery. "But you know how we're fixed. And 
 we'll have gasoline trucks in a couple of years, you know." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Pinsky doubtfully, "I'm scared of them 
 myself. You gotta consider that us people ain't got room 
 for a big stock, and when we want a thing, we want it."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 137 
 
 "I'll put it up to Mr. Hatherly," I answered, crank- 
 ing the car she cranked from the side, like a hurdy- 
 gurdy "and I'll tell him that it's your suggestion. He 
 says himself that a satisfied customer is the best adver- 
 tisement." 
 
 "That's right," said Pinsky, reaching up and patting 
 my arm. "You tell him what I said and he'll shove it 
 through right quick." 
 
 And we would chug away, leaving Pinsky beaming and 
 dry-washing his hands on the curb. There is always more 
 than one way of satisfying a customer. 
 
 Back again at the office we would analyze these people, 
 or, rather, I asked questions and Marks analyzed. In 
 time we evolved a form blank for keeping track of our 
 trade. 
 
 "Pinsky has a good place," I would suggest. 
 
 "Too crowded," Marks would answer, or perhaps he 
 was overstocked or in a poorly chosen locality. Marks 
 always found some trouble and his points were always 
 well taken. 
 
 Marks and I got a good deal of amusement out of these 
 suggestions. I don't know how they impressed him; I 
 know that I formed the habit of putting them down at 
 night, together with Marks' criticisms, considering and 
 testing and gradually weaving them into the old note book. 
 My notes gradually crystallized and cohered into a defi- 
 nite plan, slowly at first, and then taking on structure by 
 leaps and bounds. One thing troubled me immensely; I 
 realized that without Marks this plan was useless. But 
 how to get 
 
 m 
 
 Clearer than any other event of this time I recall the 
 day when Marks took up his part in this conception of 
 mine. There was a "glory story" written about us once, 
 a rather absurd and over-colored narrative, in which the
 
 138 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 entire plan of The Stores sprang up over night, like the 
 palace which the Slave of the Lamp built for Aladdin. 
 We laid out the main features of the structure that night, 
 but it was far from being a complete fabric when dawn 
 surprised us at our work. Only the main outlines were 
 there, a rough and incompleted vision of the whole. 
 
 Gottlieb, a little German whose pet idea had been that 
 we move uptown, really started it. With some four or 
 five others of our customers he had started a cooperation 
 scheme, buying directly from the markets and manufac- 
 turers instead of purchasing through us. Marks and I 
 had followed this attempt with a great deal of interest. 
 At first we tried to dissuade them, for it meant a loss of 
 trade for us. This failing, we had given them advice and 
 suggestions. While it lasted their project promised great 
 things, but it came to an end in a row which called out 
 the reserves from one of the uptown stations. 
 
 "They all end that way," said Marks soberly, handing 
 me the newspaper with a half column account of the af- 
 fair it was treated in a semi-humorous manner, I re- 
 member. "One member is always a little stronger than 
 the others; then comes jealousy, mismanagement and dis- 
 solution. We'll have them all in here in a few days, look- 
 ing for a new line of credit." 
 
 Two of the members of this alliance went out of busi- 
 ness, but the others came back as Marks had prophesied, 
 with vague but voluble explanations of their failure. They 
 each blamed the others for stupidity and greediness; if 
 their advice had been taken there would have been no 
 trouble. Last of all came Gottlieb, almost heart broken 
 at his failure. From him we got a clear account of what 
 had happened; sure enough, he had tried to dominate the 
 others and in the resulting squabble had come disaster. 
 But Gottlieb couldn't see why they had failed. He shook 
 his head mournfully, a squat little figure of woe gazing 
 dejectedly into the crown of his hat. 
 
 "Well, that's all," he said heavily. "If these others
 
 FLOOD TIDE 139 
 
 would have listened to me we'd have made a go of it. ... 
 After this, Gottlieb sticks by his own place." 
 
 "I should advise that," commented Jenkins dryly. "As 
 for your credit let's see what the books say. I think we 
 can manage it." 
 
 They went out together, tall, ascetic Jenkins and fat 
 little Gottlieb with the bristly roll of flesh over his collar, 
 Jenkins bending courteously to listen to Gottlieb's 
 rumbled explanations. 
 
 Marks followed them with his eyes, "Just as I said," 
 he commented. "He tried to boss the others, they wouldn't 
 stand for it, and the result was a grand free-for-all." 
 
 "You were right," I agreed thoughtfully. "These round 
 robin ways of doing business never seem to get anywhere." 
 
 "Everything has a head," he said absently. "They 
 tried to buck a natural law, that's all. . . . Their idea 
 was good. Cooperation is always good." 
 
 I had my own ideas about that. "Cooperation is not 
 goods, Marks. The good feature about cooperative stores 
 is the part which isn't concerned with collective action 
 the buying and the advantages of central management 
 of units. It's " 
 
 "The Rochdale stores England," he reminded me. 
 
 "That's profit sharing a distinct thing. That in- 
 volves the customer. You can't consider that over here; 
 we're not built that way. . . . Marks, I believe that what 
 money there is in this business is in the retail end. Or " 
 I watched the effect of this "in a combination of the 
 wholesale and retail." 
 
 But he proved disappointingly dull. 
 
 "A retail grocery is the poorest business risk in the 
 world," he said dismally. "I ought to know." 
 
 "How about two stores?" 
 
 "Double the risk. Two bad eggs are worse than one." 
 
 "But if the first store was good and the second was 
 like it " 
 
 "No two stores are alike,"
 
 140 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "There's no reason why they shouldn't be," I objected. 
 
 "No reason at all, except that no two men think alike." 
 
 "But if one man thought alike I mean if one man : 
 
 "Owned both stores?" Marks was the unconscious vic- 
 tim of his own method of suggestion. "He'd double his 
 chances of either winning or losing." 
 
 "There's no such thing as a perfect store, of course," 
 I considered. "You and I know that. Some have one 
 good feature, some another. Suppose you combined these 
 good features all in one place; is there any reason why 
 you shouldn't multiply that place indefinitely?" 
 
 "Many reasons limitations of territory, the necessities 
 of management, the lack of capital. Put that first. You 
 can't start a store on nothing. And after you start it, 
 you can't go away and let it run itself. You've got to be 
 on the job twenty-three hours a day, and even then you're 
 not safe." 
 
 "Why twenty-three hours a day?" 
 
 "Something always goes wrong." 
 
 I spoke out of the vast depths of my experience. "No 
 need of it. If you had a free hand here couldn't you 
 systematize this place so it would almost run itself?" 
 
 "I think I could so could you." 
 
 "Then why not the same in a retail place?" 
 
 "I'd like to try it," he said wistfully. "But it's a mat- 
 ter of temporizing of putting up with what you have. 
 Why, in my last store 
 
 "I know. But suppose you started clean and new, with 
 two or three places in good locations. Spend two or three 
 years trying ideas, whittling down, finding the best ways 
 of doing things. Get everything running on ball bearings. 
 Then start to add. Is there any reason why you couldn't 
 add indefinitely, beyond the fact that the business of 
 management would be a limitation? And that's a bridge 
 you could cross when you came to it." 
 
 He was interested and yet doubtful. 
 
 "Think what you've save on the buying end alone," I
 
 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 went on. "In time it would mean the elimination of the 
 profit of places like this." 
 
 "You've got to show me." 
 
 "I intend to. I may be bragging, but I think that I 
 know this wholesale business as well as the next man. 
 And I'm not getting anywhere. You know the retail 
 end I know, you've had three failures, but if you don't 
 know more about it than nine-tenths of our customers 
 I'm one Chinaman and you're another. Do you see any 
 prospects here? Or in the retail business provided you 
 make another start?" 
 
 "I'll be hanged if I do," he answered morosely. "I've 
 been trying to get up courage for another start and I 
 can't do it." 
 
 "Two heads are better than one. Perhaps this will 
 help you get back your nerve." 
 
 I reached down into the desk and gave him the book 
 over which I had worked so long. He turned it over cu- 
 riously, glanced at me, then spread it out on the desk 
 and opened it. 
 
 He skimmed over the whole, dipping into it here and 
 there, pausing to read a snatch here and there I im- 
 agine that he came across his own name more than once 
 in this rapid survey. Then he turned to the beginning 
 again. Opposite the first page was a chart of the whole 
 idea, a fan-shaped construction with connecting lines 
 leading from larger to smaller circles. He puzzled over 
 this for a time, got a vague grasp of its essentials, and 
 then detached it from the rest, referring to it as he read 
 on. He nodded to himself as the plan grew upon him; 
 slowly and doubtfully at first, but as he saw the main fea- 
 tures he began to wag his head in approval. It was in- 
 complete, merely a fragment, even in the chart there were 
 sections marked with interrogation points, but it was as 
 complete as a mere mental construction could be. He 
 went through it three times, each time more rapidly, get- 
 ting the main points firmly fixed in his mind.
 
 142 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Well?" I said finally, as he closed the book. 
 
 He hesitated. "My name occurs quite frequently here. 
 You mean " 
 
 He waited, and I smiled at his obvious stratagem. "I 
 mean that you and I share equally," I answered. "Un- 
 less, of course, you're satisfied to stay here." 
 
 "I'm not."' 
 
 "Then shall we try it?" 
 
 "I'm with you," he said briefly, and we shook hands 
 on it. 
 
 "Now show me my mistakes. I've made them, I know." 
 
 We went through the entire book again, drifting off 
 into far reaching discussions as we went along, tracing 
 minor matters as far as possible into the future and then 
 coming back to take up some other aspect of the plan. 
 Evening came on, the clatter and rumble in the street 
 dwindled away to silence and still the discussion held us. 
 Toward midnight we sent the night watchman out to Was- 
 serbauer's for coffee and sandwiches and ate as we talked. 
 We combined in attacking my plan from every conceivable 
 angle, questioning, objecting, seeking alternatives; some 
 parts of it withstood our questionings and others we re- 
 made in part or in whole. But the main idea, the skele- 
 ton of it all, stood intact. It was morning when we finally 
 worked through to the last page of the outline. 
 
 Marks struggled with a yawn and came off vanquished. 
 "Let's call it a day," he suggested sleepily. 
 
 I gathered up the scattered sheets of notes and patted 
 them together. "You've raised the very devil with my 
 plans," I said almost regretfully. "They're not mine any 
 longer, but ours." 
 
 We went out together into the clean morning sunlight. 
 
 IV 
 
 Well, that was how it started, during the long Novem- 
 ber night when Marks and I welded together the structure
 
 FLOOD TIDE 143 
 
 of The Stores over our sandwiches and lukewarm coffee. 
 The result was only a rough working plan of the frame- 
 work ; during the winter we added to it gradually, a pinch 
 here and a pinch there, gradually smoothing and fashion- 
 ing our material. 
 
 "There's nothing original about the whole affair," 
 Marks declared. "It just consists in doing things better. 
 While we're here, we've got the chance of finding out how 
 others do business and what mistakes they make. After 
 we start we'll have to learn from our own mistakes. It's 
 up to us to learn all we can while we can. ... I never 
 realized before how little I actually know." 
 
 Neither did I. I was impatient at first, but as time 
 went on and I came to appreciate the myriad details which 
 we had to provide for I lost some measure of this impa- 
 tience and settled down to work and wait. 
 
 We stayed on at Hatherly's, doing our usual work 
 during the day and our planning after hours and at odd 
 moments during the day. We questioned, explored, in- 
 vestigated. We went as far as we dared into the affairs 
 of our customers. 
 
 "You take a sudden interest in my business," said 
 Pinsky, mystified. 
 
 "The more goods you sell the better for us," evaded 
 Marks. "Why don't you move your butter chest from 
 behind the counter, where you can get at it?" 
 
 "But it's always been there," countered Pinsky. "Arid 
 suppose I moved her out on the front, would I sell any 
 more butter?" 
 
 He shook his head in triumph, and Marks gave up his 
 attempt at reconstruction. I scarcely blamed Pinsky; 
 to move the butter chest would have started an endless 
 train of changes. That was one thing which we intended 
 to avoid through this preliminary planning. As far as 
 possible we intended to find the best possible arrange- 
 ment and then try it out in actual practice. 
 
 Every day we added something to our structure, this
 
 144 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 or that problem was solved, suggestions disposed of, some 
 finally and others with a choice of alternatives to be 
 worked out later. Sometimes I felt a sneaking sense of 
 disloyalty to Hatherly, but with the end of the recon- 
 struction period my work had become a matter of routine 
 and in reality Hatherly lost nothing. He was satisfied, 
 and said so on one of his frequent visits. Jenkins was 
 pleased also. 
 
 "Staying again, eh?" he would inquire. "That's the 
 stuff keep you out of cheap bar rooms. Did it myself 
 when I was your age." 
 
 "What, the bar rooms?" queried Marks innocently. 
 
 Jenkins paused in tucking in the ends of his long muf- 
 fler. "No, dammit, the work worked all hours," he ex- 
 ploded. Then he chuckled. "Yes, the bar rooms once 
 in a while. Don't over work." 
 
 Marks grinned at me as Jenkins struggled into his 
 overcoat and went out stepping high. "Human old cuss, 
 after all. Now about this 
 
 And we would fall to with renewed vigor. 
 
 But in all our planning there was something lacking, 
 an absence of some necessary element. We felt it vaguely ; 
 Marks almost touched it when he said that there was 
 nothing original about our plans. Something was needed 
 beside a central idea dressed in borrowed raiment. 
 
 At this time there were three of us rooming on the 
 top floor of the old house not far from Brown Brothers, 
 McCollom, Jack Worthington and myself. McCollom, 
 that wild Scotchman, was there when I came. He was 
 doing police courts for the City News Bureau at that 
 time and was remarkable for his magnificent contempt of 
 all official wisdom. More faintly I remember Worthing- 
 ton as he was then ; he arrived a few weeks after I came, 
 displacing a middle aged man with lank and discouraged
 
 FLOOD TIDE 145 
 
 hair. Worthington had two failings ; he wrote verses and 
 read Swinburne aloud in the evening and sold insurance 
 for a living. Beside these two there was a Russian anar- 
 chist, in one of the back rooms, who conducted fierce one 
 sided arguments with Worthington as he shaved in the 
 morning, waving his razor about and bouncing fragments 
 of abused English from Jack's head. He left, in the 
 course of time, without gratifying McCollom's earnest 
 wish that he'd cut his throat. 
 
 We were all about the same age, and a common isola- 
 tion drew us together; we borrowed tobacco and finally 
 became well enough acquainted to call each other fighting 
 names. 
 
 During the winter a fourth man joined us. 
 
 I came home from a late session with Marks, yawning 
 and stumbling over curbstones in a drizzling wet snow. 
 By all right Scipio surnamed Africanus by Worthing- 
 ton should have been abed long before, but as I went 
 upstairs he dodged out from his mysterious den in the 
 back regions of the house. 
 
 "Thar's a stranger in your room, Mis'r Coffin," he 
 whispered over the banister. "Been thar all evenin'. I 
 ast him to wait here in the hall but no, he insist that he 
 knows you and swears at me scandalous. So I let him 
 in." 
 
 "What's his name?" I asked. 
 
 "I forget," admitted Skip. "But he's got on a straw 
 hat and weather like this, too! Mostly them people 
 calls 'emselves Napoleon." 
 
 I climbed, Skip bringing up a safe and conservative 
 rear. 
 
 "See him?" he whispered, pointing through my open 
 door. 
 
 I saw. The stranger sat under the green shaded light ; 
 in addition to the straw hat he had donned my red bath- 
 robe. His face was thin and yellow. And, as a final 
 touch, he had taken from the walls all my Whitehaven
 
 146 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 paintings, propped them on chairs and table, and sat sur- 
 veying them critically. 
 
 "Say," queried the apparition, "how long since they've 
 built over the Point? And what's become of Littlefield's 
 fish house? Who painted these things, anyway?" 
 
 I admitted my guilt. 
 
 "No!" he croaked. "So that's what you're doing. I 
 always knew you'd come to a bad end. You don't remem- 
 ber me, do you? Buck's Island the Shadow " 
 
 He removed his tattered panama and grinned up at 
 me. 
 
 "Stowell! You confounded old ghost! What have you 
 been doing with yourself? Where's your hair?" 
 
 "In Venezuela. Fever, you know. I've 
 
 He broke off and stared over my shoulder at Skip. 
 That worthy, at sight of Dick's uncovered head, had gone 
 off in an explosion of Senegambian laughter. I led him 
 gently outside. 
 
 "So you're an artist chap," resumed Stowell question- 
 ingly. 
 
 "No. I'm a clerk in a wholesale grocery house," I cor- 
 rected. That mistake out of the way, we settled down to 
 catch up the threads of the past. He had just landed 
 that morning from a New Orleans boat hence the straw 
 hat and we had the events of five years and more to go 
 over. My part was soon told, the final two years at col- 
 lege, then Hatherly's and finally our New York place, 
 but beside Dick's narrative it seemed most commonplace 
 and gray. 
 
 He gave me just the bare outline of it that night, a 
 brief, laconic Odyssey of five years spent in wandering 
 about South and Central America, building railroads in 
 the upland coffee country of Brazil, working on railroads 
 and breakwaters on the western coast and once serving as 
 second engineer on a side wheel tub which wallowed from 
 port to port on the Caribbean. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said, fishing into his pocket and tossing
 
 FLOOD TIDE 147 
 
 me a great emblazoned decoration. "I'm a chevalier 
 now don't laugh Don Ricardo Stowell de San Luis 
 and the rest of it. That piece of hardware and a yard 
 of ribbon stand for six months' work, fighting land crabs 
 and helping rebuild an old fort on the sand pit off Ando- 
 tinna." 
 
 I swung the enameled star to and fro by its gaudy and 
 frayed ribbon as he went on. It was a queer panorama 
 which he unrolled as the snow flakes hissed and whirled 
 outside the windows. He unrolled it slowly and jerkily, 
 now from one end and now from the other, hurrying on 
 when I wished him to go into detail and pausing over 
 inconsequential and unrelated memories as they crowded 
 into his mind. I retain a strange medley of impressions 
 of his story; it brought back the times when we had 
 sprawled on the cliffs of the Island and imagined such 
 things. That is, I had imagined them; now Stowell had 
 lived them and come back to tell about it. Panama; 
 something big was going to break there soon; Bolivia 
 "The most wonderful cattle country in the world, back 
 from the coast" ; Argentina . That brought White- 
 haven and Bess to mind and we wandered off into home 
 talk. As well as I could I satisfied his eagerness to hear 
 from home, raking my memory for news of figures long 
 lost to sight. 
 
 It was very late when we turned in, and I was hard put 
 to find coverings enough to satisfy Dick. 
 
 "Cold," he mumbled, as he dropped off to sleep, "First 
 snow I've seen for years. Remember the time we buried 
 Jimmy Blackburn in the drift and had to get shovels to 
 dig him out?" 
 
 There was no work for me the next day. Dick insisted 
 on a holiday. We bought a decent hat to replace the 
 straw atrocity and got the biggest fur coat we could 
 find in town. He stared at the motors and boasted of 
 having seen one two years before in Rio. 
 
 He broke into my work a great deal during the weeks
 
 148 FLOOD TIDE , 
 
 that followed, not an intentional interruption, but his 
 presence made a break in the steady current of my work. 
 He settled down in the anarchist's room opposite mine, 
 stocked it with furniture and what few possessions he 
 had brought back from the south, and started to grow a 
 new crop of hair. He fell in easily with McCollom and 
 Worthington; Mac got material for several Sunday sup- 
 plement articles out of him and Worthington was inspired 
 to start a new series of lyrics "Songs of the Southern 
 Cross," he called them. And, a wonderful thing, he sold 
 them, and the three went on a celebration and came home 
 to rout me from my figuring, Worthington insisting on 
 reciting the whole series from end to end, Dick strum- 
 ming an accompaniment on a battered old mandolin and 
 Mac doing the pantomime. 
 
 After the novelty of getting back wore off, Stowell 
 found time hanging heavy on his hands. He formed the 
 habit of dropping in on us at Hatherly's in the afternoon, 
 wandering about the warehouse, and, when tired of that, 
 sitting in the office and yawning over our small stock of 
 trade literature. Once, as Marks and I were threading 
 our way down town in the car, we passed Dick, fur coat 
 and all, perched high on the seat of one of our trucks, 
 he and the driver smoking long cigars and enjoying them- 
 selves hugely. 
 
 He took a great interest in our plans, asking questions 
 without end. After he thoroughly understood what we 
 were aiming at he began to dip his finger into our pie, 
 always apologizing for his intrusion but sometimes sur- 
 prising us by his keen analysis of our difficulties. Once 
 or twice we asked his opinion of minor matters over which 
 we differed, and considering his slight knowledge of the 
 problems the solutions were surprisingly good, backed by 
 clear common sense. 
 
 "Would we ever have thought of that?" Marks asked 
 me one day, after Stowell had overturned one of our minor 
 pinnacles with a single thrust and then gone out to chat
 
 FLOOD TIDE 149 
 
 with the head shipping clerk. "I don't think so. ... 
 What is he planning to do when he gets on his feet again ?" 
 
 I told him the various things which Dick had in mind. 
 
 "We're going to need a man like him some day," he con- 
 sidered, digging away at his blotter with a pen. "We 
 need him now, for that matter. Common sense is a rare 
 commodity. He sees things from the outside something 
 you and I can never do. I wonder ' 
 
 He drummed on his desk and trailed off into silence. 
 
 "If we could use him?" I completed. 
 
 "No; not that," said Marks. "I wonder if we can 
 get along without him." 
 
 VI 
 
 Stowell and I resolved to go home together for Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 "You can stay here if you want," he threatened, "but 
 I'm going home and see a regular Christmas tree and plug 
 snow balls at the Orthodox choir when they come around 
 singing carols. And I'm going skating, too; wonder if 
 the marsh is frozen over this year?" 
 
 He went to the mirror and grinned at himself. 
 
 "Do you suppose they'll know me?" He had gained a 
 good deal of weight since coming back, and had lost some- 
 thing of that unearthly sallowness which had startled me 
 at first, but he was still far from being himself. He gazed 
 anxiously at the havoc which the fever had wrought on 
 his hair. "Do you know," he said gravely," I think these 
 two patches here are growing together." He combed his 
 scanty locks across the bare patches and stood back to 
 survey the result. "How's that?" 
 
 "Fine," I answered. "Just like the map of South 
 America; you can stick pins in it and map out your 
 travels. Take that long hair to represent the Ama- 
 zon " 
 
 The hairbrush barely missed me.
 
 150 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I am sorry now that these trips home were not more 
 frequent. Bess and I seemed to have forgotten the dif- 
 ferences which we had fought over while I was in Boston. 
 In reality they were not forgotten ; I came home at longer 
 intervals now and when I came there was so much to talk 
 about that we had no chance to quarrel. This Christmas 
 visit stands ou as an especially happy period. Bess was 
 still as discontented as ever, but the discontent was not 
 so apparent. 
 
 We went skating and sleigh riding, routed out some of 
 our old friends and got up a straw ride to a road house 
 out in the country and in general enjoyed ourselves im- 
 mensely. Dick entertained the circle of Fire Worshipers 
 with his recitals of adventure a changed circle now, for 
 Jim Knowles had gone where houses cease to worry and 
 only Captain Waldron, a shade more wrinkled and a deal 
 more dogmatic, was left to carry on the work of enlight- 
 enment. Once, as I went along Front Street, Dick and 
 a guerilla band of his young nephews assaulted me with 
 a sudden bombardment of snowballs ; they were a band 
 of intrepid patriots, led by their fearless chieftain against 
 the proud and haughty Spaniard. They fought with 
 great skill and valor and the Spaniard fled in great dis- 
 order. 
 
 I told my father nothing of our plans; he had upset 
 one of my great schemes and I was not disposed to give 
 him the chance of casting cold water on this one. I knew 
 that this was no boyish, will o' the wisp scheme, I knew 
 that it was founded on hard cold fact, but until I knew 
 these facts from all angles and had the figures to prove 
 them I was content to wait. Bess had known about our 
 plans from the first. 
 
 I don't know what she really thought of our project; 
 I thought that I knew but in the light of later events I 
 question that knowledge. She took a keen interest in all 
 our planning, demanded explanations of points which were 
 not quite clear and even argued with me about minor mat-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 151 
 
 ters. Undoubtedly she was interested; perhaps it was 
 not what she thought of it as why she thought as she did 
 that puzzled me. 
 
 I think that Bess was interested because it was "big 
 business," or at least big business in the making. Per- 
 haps this was due to my earlier letters on the subject; at 
 first, I know, I was interested mainly in the completed 
 structure, the network which we had as an ultimate end. 
 I overemphasized this element of our plans. Later, as 
 Marks and I worked over the matter, I came to appreciate 
 that this end was still far in the future, that between the 
 present and the finished structure there was a stretch of 
 years, years filled with hard, slow work. To a certain 
 extent I put away the future and worked for the present. 
 Bess never made this distinction. Through my faulty 
 perspective she confused the near and distant future. To 
 this day I believe that she expected the entire plan, with 
 all its ramifications and details, to spring into being at 
 once. It was hard to disillusion her. These small matters 
 over which we expended so much thought and labor were 
 poor subjects for conversation; it was impossible to be- 
 come enthusiastic and interesting over the merits and 
 selling powers of various brands of canned salmon. 
 
 I say that Elizabeth expected the entire structure to 
 spring up immediately. She did at first, but as the months 
 passed and we still marked time and planned she realized, 
 as I had, that as a whole the creation was still a thing of 
 the future. But she knew nothing of the difficulties which 
 we had to overcome and the slowness of finding the best 
 possible methods of doing things. I tried to point out 
 that we had only a few hours a day in which to plan, that 
 we were saving money and time by learning through the 
 mistakes of others rather than by experience, but she 
 failed to see it. 
 
 "Any one can start a grocery store," she declared. 
 "You know what people eat, don't you? And all you have
 
 152 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 to do is get those things and sell them. I don't see where 
 the difficulties come in." 
 
 I tried to show her. I remember that I was vastly 
 pleased with my command of trade jargon; looking back 
 I see that my explanations must have been as incompre- 
 hensible as an exposition of the fifth dimension. She 
 couldn't see why it should take so long just to plan mat- 
 ters. 
 
 "Oh, hang business !" I exclaimed at last. "That's all 
 I've heard for the last three months shall we do this? 
 shall we do that? and I'm tired of it. Let's talk of 
 something worth while Dick, for instance. I wonder if 
 he's thawed out yet?" 
 
 This was the night after the straw ride to the Blue 
 Anchor Inn. Dick had insisted on driving the barge home, 
 with the result that he had been nearly frozen when we 
 drove into Whitehaven after midnight. Bess and I had 
 kept warm after the approved straw ride fashion. She 
 laughed now as she recalled how Dick had slowly and 
 creakingly descended from his perch and shivered rem- 
 iniscently as she stretched forth her hands toward the 
 grateful warmth of the fireplace. 
 
 "Poor old Dick!" she said softly. "He looks terribly 
 old." 
 
 And "poor old Dick," I echoed mentally, not because 
 he looked old and yellow, but because he was missing so 
 much. I looked at Bess as she leaned forward, her clear 
 profile illuminated by the firelight and standing forth 
 against the darkness of the room, and I pitied Dick from 
 the very bottom of my heart. Bess was all in brown that 
 night, a brown with rich golden high lights and deep umber 
 shadows; I remember the glint of the firelight on the 
 smooth swell of her hair knotted low at the back of her 
 head, as was the fashion then and the dull glitter of the 
 chain about her neck as it rose and fell, a glitter that ran 
 to and fro along the links in a slow rhythm. Yes, it was 
 too bad about Dick.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 153 
 
 "You should have seen him when he landed," I returned. 
 "He has picked up wonderfully since then." 
 
 "Perhaps ; but he's changed immensely," she said ab- 
 sently. "We've all three of us changed a good deal." 
 
 I made some remark to the effect that if we were as 
 much improved by the change as she was I considered 
 myself flattered. 
 
 "Thank you," she said serenely. She looked at me 
 critically, one eyebrow raised. "You've improved, of 
 course, although you're still too thin to be a perfect 
 Adonis." 
 
 "But I'm strong," I argued, sliding toward her. "Let 
 me demonstrate." 
 
 "No you don't!" She threatened me with the chain. 
 "I haven't drawn a deep breath since last night." 
 
 Like Caesar, I overcame. 
 
 "But we have changed," she went on. "You're not the 
 same, neither is Dick. And mother has she told you 
 about her 'investments'?" 
 
 Her tone implied a contempt of investments. Now that 
 I thought of it, Mrs. Alden had changed ; I recalled vague 
 allusions to finance, instead of the usual small gossip and 
 talk about her husband. By this time all hope of Mr. 
 Alden returning from the Klondike had vanished. 
 
 "Mother has some money of her own, you know," she 
 said, and hesitated. 
 
 "I know," I said quickly. I had always suspected that 
 Alden had been a parasite. 
 
 "And lately Mr. Learoyd has been handling it for her 
 stocks, you know. That's his business. Just guessing, 
 they are like that Italian game you showed me once, 
 morro morra, is it? If you guess the right number of 
 fingers you win." 
 
 She was silent for a moment. 
 
 "But they seem to be guessing right. Mother's been 
 talking about the old Carver place, and if everything goes 
 well she intends to buy it in the spring. She's worse than
 
 154 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 father ever was she doesn't tell me about anything but 
 goes about mumbling to herself, like a silly old conspira- 
 tor." 
 
 It seemed funny then, but somehow or other the jest 
 has since lost its savor. There was something incongru- 
 ous in this linking of finance and Mrs. Alden; I have 
 laughed since to think of it, but I have laughed at myself 
 and not at her. 
 
 "I hope she comes out all right," she continued. "I 
 hope but I'm always hoping. It doesn't seem to do any 
 good." 
 
 This was a criticism of life which I never met. How 
 could I? She was tired of living in a world of possibili- 
 ties and I had no actualities to offer. 
 
 "Like the Lady of Shalott," she said gloomily. "Al- 
 ways shadows and more shadows. . . . Oh well!" 
 
 I went back to work filled with the determination to 
 hurry things along, labored feverishly for a week or so, 
 and then had to undo my work and go more slowly. How- 
 ever much I struggled against the innate inertia of time, 
 I struggled in vain. For a time I thought seriously of 
 giving up Hatherly's and devoting myself entirely to our 
 plans. But I decided to stay ; I had to make a living and 
 by leaving Hatherly's I would cut myself off from all 
 chances of observing the mistakes of others. 
 
 vn 
 
 Stowell stayed home for two weeks, then drifted in un- 
 announced one evening. Marks had dropped in at my 
 room on his way home; Stowell interrupted our planning. 
 
 "Dull old place," he commented. "I stood it as long 
 as I could." 
 
 He yawned and started on the pile of mail that had 
 accumulated during his absence. Marks and I went on 
 with our discussion. We were working over one of our 
 semi-final problems then, making a plot of the arrange-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 155 
 
 ment of our floor space, working in all the suggestions 
 and ideas which we had been gathering for months. We 
 had taken the best from each store and it made a good 
 showing on the plan. We were so engrossed that we failed 
 to notice that Stowell had abandoned his reading and 
 stood behind us. There came a lull in our talk and he 
 broke in. 
 
 "Where's the stove and sand-box?" he demanded. "You 
 can't run a store without a stove for them to put their 
 feet against, can you?" 
 
 Marks started to explain and object, but Stowell cut 
 him short. 
 
 "Perhaps you don't plan to have Fire Worshipers," 
 he said. "Let me look at your plan ; this black and white 
 stuff is something in my line." 
 
 He bent over the sheet as we pointed out the arrange- 
 ments to him, rather proud of our work. 
 
 "I wish I knew enough to criticize this intelligently." 
 He put his finger on the shelves at the right of the plan. 
 "How much clearance between these?" 
 
 We weren't sure. 
 
 "You know the average size of the cans you're intend- 
 ing to fill them with?" he continued patiently. 
 
 "About so high," said Marks and held up his hand, in- 
 dicating the height between thumb and forefinger. 
 
 "I see," said Dick soberly. "Just as high as a piece 
 of string. And I suppose you plan to sell a basketfull 
 of them for a handful of money." 
 
 Marks scratched his head. 
 
 "How much clearance between shelves and counters?" 
 
 We know that, for I had gone to the trouble of measur- 
 ing it. 
 
 "Rather narrow," decided Dick. "You'll have your 
 clerks scraping past each other all the time, dropping 
 stuff and getting in the way. Better make it wider. 
 There's another thing; you don't want all this scraping
 
 156 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 and scrouging around behind the counters. Arrange 
 your stuff so one man can fill any reasonable order." 
 
 I objected. We had taken these things from actual 
 practice. 
 
 "That's no argument at all," he retorted. "Start in 
 from the bottom and build up. Throw these old ideas 
 overboard." 
 
 Marks grinned at me; here was my own argument used 
 against me. 
 
 "What else is wrong?" I asked. 
 
 "I don't know probably a lot of things," he said 
 thoughtfully. "I wish you'd take me in with you and 
 give me a chance to find out." 
 
 Marks and I looked at each other in astonishment. 
 
 "Well " Marks began. 
 
 "One minute," Dick interrupted, and produced a letter. 
 "I've just had good news and bad news. That lighthouse 
 proposition has fallen through. That's the bad news. 
 The other read this." 
 
 He tossed me a letter with a vivid orange stamp on the 
 envelope. I spelled it out slowly, for my Spanish had 
 gone rusty with disuse, and found it an offer of twenty 
 thousand pesos for Senor Stowell's option on a certain 
 piece of land in Chile. 
 
 "Nitrate workings," he explained, and refused to go 
 further. 
 
 "But twenty thousand " 
 
 "That probably means five thousand gold when old 
 Garcilasso gets through wailing about hard times and 
 sickness in his family he's related to more invalids than 
 you can imagine. The option alone is worth five times 
 what he offers ; he's probably got up some sort of a dicker 
 with the English firm that was nosing around when I left. 
 . . . But here's my proposition. You'll need all the 
 capital you can get. Good. You two dreamers need a 
 guardian a practical man. Also good. I offer you the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 157 
 
 two at once with my undeniable good looks thrown in. 
 How about it?" 
 
 Marks looked at me. I laughed. 
 
 "Sit down," said Marks. "We're not laughing at you. 
 The funny part of it is that we decided a month ago that 
 we couldn't get along without you." 
 
 I nodded confirmation. 
 
 Dick laughed. "And I decided a month ago that I was 
 tired of knocking around. This say, what have you 
 named this scheme of yours? No name yet? Why not 
 just The Stores? Simple, dignified and and inclusive." 
 
 "There's an idea," agreed Marks. 
 
 And so it was. 
 
 vm 
 
 As our plans neared completion I went home, for the 
 first time since our Christmas excursion. Stowell and 
 Marks had secured their part of the amount needed for 
 our start, Marks through some mysterious channel of his 
 own and Stowell from his Don Garcilasso. I planned to 
 borrow my part from my father, or, rather, to persuade 
 him to invest. 
 
 I had little trouble in persuading him. I had already 
 written to him when I thought the state of our plans war- 
 ranted it, and he already knew a great deal about our 
 plans, although he looked dismayed when I spread out 
 the calculations, blue prints and other proofs which I had 
 brought home. 
 
 "You remember the old saying?" he asked. "'There 
 are three kinds of lies lies, damned lies and statistics.' 
 Just tell me about it." 
 
 I told him. He had a few questions on points which 
 I had failed to make clear. Then he agreed. I had ex- 
 pected it, but it was a relief to know. 
 
 "One question more," he said as I gathered up my un- 
 used proofs.
 
 158 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I suppose you often wish that you were teaching school 
 instead of mucking around with low things like groceries 
 and dollars?" 
 
 "Very often about once a year," I answered. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 It was mid-a'fternoon of the next day when I turned up 
 High Street to the old Carver house. Mrs. Alden's "in- 
 vestments" had turned out well, evidently, for of late what 
 few letters I had received from Bess had been brief and 
 hurried scrawls telling of the troubles of moving and set- 
 ting up a new establishment. I had loitered about the 
 store all morning, trying to get up courage to call; I 
 felt a curious diffidence, almost amounting to fear, about 
 calling. It was a different matter from just running 
 across the street. 
 
 As a boy I had always had a reverence of High Street 
 and something of it came back to me that afternoon. To 
 be sure, the old houses on either side had lost a great deal 
 of the magnificence with which my imagination had en- 
 dowed them; their lawns, which I remembered as broad 
 acres of smooth, close-cropped green, had contracted some- 
 how or other and brought the houses nearer the street. 
 Here was the Bixby "mansion," once a veritable Taj 
 Mahal with its red and green slate roof, its porte-cochere 
 and ginger-bread work; tawdry enough now, and in most 
 atrocious architectural taste, I thought. And beyond 
 that Captain Carrol's house under the great elm, a green 
 and white colonial place which I had once despised as out 
 of date and now found unexpectedly beautiful. But de- 
 spite this changed view High Street was still High Street, 
 the Fifth Avenue of my boyhood, a Fifth Avenue vaulted 
 over with the interlacing boughs of the cathedral elms 
 whose protruding roots made the sidewalks perilous on 
 dark nights. I was still somewhat in awe of it: 
 
 I reached the old Carver house. Strange how these old 
 houses clung to their names ; the last Carver had died
 
 FLOOD TIDE 159 
 
 twenty years ago, but the name still remained would re- 
 main, I supposed, long after the family had passed from 
 memory. It took more than fresh paint, striped awnings 
 at every window, and an obtrusively new porch like a 
 fresh fringe on an old gown to bring about these changes. 
 Change was slow in towns which were thriving young set- 
 tlements when Wolfe stormed the Plains of Abraham. 
 Even the tennis court at the side of the house would still 
 be Madam Carver's garden as long as there remained in 
 town a single gray-beard who had stolen puckery goose- 
 berries and currants there as a barefoot boy. . . . 
 
 I like to remember Elizabeth as she was that afternoon, 
 slender, all in white, as we sat on the terrace at the side 
 of the house and watched the players in the court below. 
 It was one of those May days which steal ahead of their 
 proper season, a breathless, perfumed ripple of summer. 
 I remember a pink and white mist of apple blossoms amid 
 the light green of the orchard across the hedge and a stray 
 scent of lilac from some bold and early bush. There was 
 a shifting and fragmentary background of tennis-playing 
 youths and young girls I remembered some of them as 
 having been in short trousers and pigtails when I had left 
 for college. Mrs. Alden, grown suddenly self assertive 
 with the change in her fortunes, called them over and in- 
 troduced them one by one; I also had to meet Learoyd 
 again. Mrs. Alden always made a state matter of intro- 
 ductions. 
 
 When Elizabeth's mother was quite sure that I knew 
 every one within sight she showed a disposition to domi- 
 nate the conversation, displaying an interest in The Stores 
 and all our doings. Apparently she thought none too 
 highly of any of them, and I am afraid that my answers 
 to her questions were far from satisfactory. I was con- 
 scious of a sudden weariness of everything connected with 
 the making of money. I found myself wandering off into 
 a futile and inconclusive argument with her, much against 
 my will; something about May wheat and copper stocks,
 
 160 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 things of which I knew little and in which had even less 
 interest. I have a vague remembrance of her use of high 
 sounding phrases in an inexact manner; I know that her 
 attitude toward me irritated me in some subtle fashion. 
 She was not exactly patronizing, nor yet antagonistic, 
 but she had the air of thinking that we might use our 
 money to better advantage. I tried to cut the whole dis- 
 tasteful subject short. 
 
 "Whatever money I make," I declared, "will be for 
 service rendered." 
 
 She blinked at that, and struck off at a new angle on 
 a garbled and distorted version of the old capitalistic ar- 
 gument. I answered absently ; I felt singularly ill at ease. 
 It is a small detail, but the fact that I wore a heavy dark 
 suit while the rest were in flannels and duck had a good 
 deal to do with my feeling of discomfort. I was entirely 
 out of touch with this sort of life. I suppose it was the 
 change in Bess and her mother more than anything; Mrs. 
 Alden had been a negligible factor before, while now she 
 seemed to assume a new importance. I began to wonder if 
 this change was going to affect me. There seemed an im- 
 measurable gap between this new way of living and the 
 semi-squalidness of the old house opposite ours. And yet 
 it was not the material difference; I imagined that I de- 
 tected a change in their attitude toward me. I felt that 
 I had shrunk in importance. Instead of being welcomed, 
 I was accepted. I was outside. They talked of subjects 
 which I didn't understand and then volunteered no ex- 
 planations. I didn't like it. 
 
 Bess perched on the broad railing of the terrace as we 
 talked. She entered into the conversation only occasion- 
 ally, and then only in answer to a direct question. Be- 
 tween times she plucked nervously at a climbing vine. 
 
 Finally Learoyd took pity on me and left. Mrs. Alden 
 walked down the path with him evidently there was some 
 discussion which demanded privacy. 
 
 "You haven't seen the house yet, have you?" Bess asked.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 161 
 
 "It's quite different from the old place. Let's go before 
 mother comes back." 
 
 She was evidently quite pleased with the house. I re- 
 member it now as a succession of high-studded rooms with 
 pretentiously decorated ceilings, a narrow hall with an 
 obtrusive black walnut newel post and balustrade, a bare 
 and stifling little conservatory off the dining room and 
 everywhere evidences of a conflict of tastes between Bess 
 and her mother. There were old pieces of furniture from 
 the old house and shiny new chairs fresh from the up- 
 holsterers ; in the dining room a fish-and-game abomina- 
 tion confronted an ultra-modern sideboard, and above 
 every fireplace ineffectual little fireplaces surrounded by 
 square yards of tinted tiling and carving were vast 
 empty spaces of mirrors emphasizing the note of bare- 
 ness and incompletion. Had I been in a critical mood I 
 might have pointed out these incongruities, but Bess was 
 so pleased with it all that I lacked the heart to do it. She 
 appreciated that it was far from perfect. 
 
 "There are a lot of changes to be made," she said doubt- 
 fully, when we had completed our inspection. "Mother in- 
 sisted on a great many things which are rather absurd. 
 . . . Let's go outside." 
 
 Whatever absurdities and evidences of ill-taste people 
 put into their houses they are happily unable to do much 
 toward disfiguring the land about them; Nature mocks 
 their efforts and refuses to conform. I remember quite 
 clearly the clumps of evergreens, once trimmed to geomet- 
 rical forms but now grown up to wildness, the low-groined 
 vaults of the orchard with drifts of fallen petals in faint 
 reflection of the drifting white clouds, and, down the aisles 
 of gray trunks, the gleam of the misty blue headlands 
 in the distance. We moved through the chequered sun- 
 light and shadow, Bess pointing out contemplated changes 
 and I more engrossed in watching the play of the alter- 
 nate sunlight and shade among the coils of her coppery
 
 162 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 hair. She had a faint, half realized idea that the house 
 fell short of perfection. 
 
 "If it were only all as beautiful as this," she said with 
 a half sigh. "But we'll have things in order by autumn, 
 whether mother likes it or not." 
 
 There was a little rustic summer house among the pine 
 clumps, now mercifully covered by a climbing grape vine 
 which was just beginning to send out wooly little shoots. 
 And final note of New England splendor before the 
 summer house was a pool, with a boy-and-dolphin fountain 
 spouting a thin tinkling stream, a jet which flashed into 
 the pool and fed the tiny brook which dripped slowly 
 over a miniature fall and wandered away between stone 
 banks. I wondered idly how it came to be placed in this 
 out-of-the-way corner; usually they were set on the front 
 lawn for the world to admire and envy. We sat here and 
 drifted off into talk of many things. 
 
 I remember nothing of what we said at first ; I imagine 
 it was the usual catching up with the progress of events. 
 My feeling of strangeness vanished ; I was wonderfully and 
 indolently contented with myself. There was no more 
 planning until my mind frayed off into rags, but the reali- 
 zation and working out of actualities. 
 
 Bess shifted the talk to nearer grounds. 
 
 "Tell me about your latest plans," she said. "They 
 interrupted you so that I couldn't get all of it." 
 
 "There's not much to tell, beyond what I've written 
 you," I answered. "We're ready to start did you un- 
 derstand that my father has come in with us finan- 
 cially?" 
 
 "That's why you came home to see him?" 
 
 "And you, of course." I told her of my interview of 
 the night before. 
 
 "That puts the last touches on it," I said. "We'll be 
 started in a month. But it's really only a small start. 
 These first places won't amount to much in the whole
 
 FLOOD TIDE 163 
 
 just a trial and working out of what we think may be 
 good." 
 
 "I thought you were ready to start on the whole thing," 
 she objected. 
 
 "Hardly. I wish we could. But we must work these 
 matters out before we dare to apply them on a large scale. 
 It takes capital to make a big start, more capital than 
 we have, even if we dared start largely." 
 
 "Couldn't you get it?" 
 
 "I don't know; I suppose so, if we tried. But you see 
 that would mean outside control." 
 
 "But you could? Then why don't you?" 
 
 "Oh !" I dismissed the idea impatiently. She failed to 
 understand that we wanted to be independent, to have 
 The Stores build themselves as far as possible. 
 
 "You're so sure that you're right; why don't you go 
 ahead?" she persisted. 
 
 "We're not sure, Bess. That is, we are sure that the 
 idea is sound, but uncertain about the practical side of 
 it. We intend to experiment, to find out the best ways 
 before we get in so far that change will be expensive and 
 impossible." 
 
 For a moment I congratulated myself on my adroit 
 avoidance of a threatened difference. 
 
 "But no matter." Bess watched the play and drift 
 of the fountain with a frown wrinkling her forehead. 
 
 " 'Wisely and slow ; they stumble that run fast,' " I 
 quoted, "and we can't risk a stumble. We must learn to 
 walk before we try to run." 
 
 "I suppose so," she answered impatiently. "How long 
 will it take you to learn to walk?" 
 
 "Marks says five years, Stowell says three, and I I'm 
 not sure. Somewhere between the two, perhaps. It de- 
 pends on your definition of walking." 
 
 "As long as that?" she commented absently. 
 
 Three years isn't a lifetime, I thought resentfully. 
 Three years ago I was a green cub, just getting out of
 
 164 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 college. It seemed hardly any time at all. And three 
 years more was just a step. And three years after that 
 ... I drifted off into speculation and romancing. I 
 came back to earth violently. 
 
 "How long have we been engaged?" Bess was asking. 
 
 "Three years nearly." 
 
 "As long as that. It doesn't seem so long, does it?" 
 
 "No." I was relieved to find that we agreed. 
 
 "I thought it wouldn't to you." 
 
 "It seems longer to you, then?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "You know as well as I 
 that a week here is a year anywhere else." 
 
 "But you're progressing 
 
 "From one cell to another and in the same prison," 
 she completed. 
 
 I adopted a policy of silence. That sometimes was 
 successful in putting an end to these fits of discontent. 
 But ordinary methods were useless. 
 
 "You know that mother doesn't like you?" she said 
 slowly. 
 
 "She never has, Bess." 
 
 "Do you know why?" 
 
 "I'm not worrying," I answered shortly. "She doesn't 
 matter." 
 
 "She thinks you're like my father," Bess said quietly. 
 , "And objects because of that? What has she been 
 saying?" I was aroused for once. 
 
 She evaded my question. "I'm not sure but she's right 
 partly." 
 
 "Thank you," I said angrily. 
 
 "There is a likeness," she went on steadily. "He was 
 always scheming something and 
 
 "Always failing," I completed bluntly. "I'm just the 
 same, I suppose." 
 
 "I wish I knew." She puckered her brows in perplexity. 
 
 This comparison to Alden angered me. That irrespon- 
 sible and futile dreamer! There was no comparison. I
 
 FLOOD TIDE 165 
 
 must have muttered to myself for she looked up with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 "I know; I'm not very cheerful, am I?" The smile 
 was gone as quickly as it came. "I have nothing to be 
 cheerful over. I'm tired to death of living here, always 
 living in hopes of something just around the corner 
 something three years away perhaps still further distant. 
 I'm always waiting for somebody and never allowed to 
 do anything for myself. Just waiting. I'm tired." 
 
 "I know." I rose and went to the door of the summer 
 house. There was nothing new in this complaint, except 
 perhaps that it hurt me more than usual. 
 
 "You don't know; you can't," her voice followed me. 
 "You have your work, and I have nothing but a lot of 
 trumpery ways of passing the time. Passing time isn't 
 living. I can't even watch things being done." Her voice 
 dropped, and she went on. "I can't look ahead three 
 years." 
 
 "I'm in the same position," I reminded her. 
 
 She was silent for a moment. 
 
 "I'm not considering you," she said deliberately. "I've 
 given that up. I'm just thinking of myself. . . . Do you 
 love me?" 
 
 I felt her hand on my shoulder, and turned to find her 
 facing me. She looked at me beneath level brows. 
 
 "You know I do," I answered, with a catch in my voice. 
 
 "Then take me out of this now." 
 
 "I can't Bess. I'll be very poor for at least two years 
 perhaps longer perhaps all my life. This is the most 
 uncertain time of all. . . . It's no easier for you than it 
 is for me." 
 
 "Then it's not now?" 
 
 The appeal went out of her voice and a new element en- 
 tered. Bess was never more desirable than at that mo- 
 ment; I made my answer with an effort. 
 
 "No," I said.
 
 166 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Her hand dropped. "I said I couldn't wait," she said 
 wearily. 
 
 I stared at her. "But there's no other solution." 
 
 "There is always a third way." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "This." 
 
 I looked down. She held out to me the ring which I 
 had bought with my first savings at Hatherly's.
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRD 
 
 "WELL, that's ended," I thought savagely. 
 
 I had been stupefied at first; there was no warning of 
 this rock which had pierced my gilded galley of dreams. 
 All about me clear seas and sunny weather, stuns'l breezes 
 and a steady glass and then disaster. I tried to argue 
 at first, hopeless arguments based on inessentials, trying 
 to patch up the break and go on as before. But it was 
 too deep a break for that. Elizabeth met and turned 
 my futile reasons with a weary and obstinate shake of 
 her head. It ended by my throwing the ring amid the 
 pattering drops of the little fountain in the pool. 
 
 So I smoked an endless succession of cigars on the train 
 and thought that it was all ended. 
 
 But it was far from that. The first shock passed, after 
 a period of muzzy self-recrimination. I settled back to 
 work. We abandoned Hatherly's and made our start. In 
 the rush and bustle of establishment I worked for one 
 thing only forgetfulness. I succeeded. When the first 
 breathing spell came remembrance was a tapping on a 
 half healed wound rather than a tearing apart of still 
 raw edges. 
 
 But I was still hurt. Worse still, and utterly damnable, 
 I was bitter against Elizabeth. I saw dimly that the fault 
 was mine, yet stubbornly held out that the break was none 
 of my making. Elizabeth and I were always at cross pur- 
 poses ; we looked at life from two divergent and irrecon- 
 cilable viewpoints. Sooner or later a break was inevitable. 
 We were fortunate that it came as it did and not later 
 ... So I thought, and through sheer inertia went on 
 167
 
 168 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 planning, working, worrying over details. Work was 
 good. It. excluded other thoughts. 
 
 But even work was an ineffectual barrier against the 
 truth. In time this irrational bitterness faded. I saw 
 that the differences which had driven us apart should 
 have drawn us closer together. I missed the inspiration 
 of Elizabeth's' quickness, her eagerness, missed the bal 
 ancing of her common sense against my flamboyant im- 
 agination. What had seemed inherent differences, im- 
 possible to pass, now became the grating or ragged edges 
 which time would have worn and fitted. More than once, 
 as we translated some plan into actuality, I remembered 
 that Bess had suggested this or criticized that ; I felt again 
 that momentary quickening of the pulse. ... I drifted off 
 into new imaginings. I believed and still believe that 
 Elizabeth's quarrel was not with me, but with this alchem- 
 istic quality within me which transmuted to-day's solid 
 reality into to-morrow's problematical El Dorado. But 
 we were succeeding; others beside myself had glimpsed 
 the distant vision. Stowell planned a trip home. I would 
 go with him, no longer a futile dreamer, but with both 
 feet on the solid ground of fact. Penitent, perhaps, but 
 penitent in the knowledge that my case was partly proved. 
 And then 
 
 But Stowell went home alone. He received one of those 
 fat double enclosures which had troubled me so during the 
 old Boston days ; he read, and passed it over to me with- 
 out comment. Elizabeth had married Learoyd. . . . 
 
 That was the end. The future held but one thing, The 
 Stores. All else in life had been taken from me, lost be- 
 yond recovery. And lost through no fault but my own. 
 
 Whatever satisfaction I find in reviewing the growth 
 of The Stores is connected with these early days. It was 
 a time of construction, of seeing to-day's imaginings be-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 169 
 
 come to-morrow's realities. Later, when The Stores was 
 "Big Business" in actuality instead of potentiality, we 
 lost touch with reality and wrestled with great and in- 
 tangible abstractions. But in the first days it .was all 
 real, all good. I am a dreamer, but no thrill of the dream- 
 er's life equals that of beating down and subduing the 
 stubbornness of raw material. This was my one touch 
 of it. 
 
 Many times the three of us worked far into the night; 
 more than once I remember the scrub-woman, that har- 
 binger of early dawn, coming in to break up our councils 
 of war. I recall long sessions of planning in our first 
 office, a sort of hanging balcony in the rear of one of the 
 first three stores, an extraordinarily cramped and incon- 
 venient little den with a low roof which forced me to go 
 around with a perpetual reverential inclination of my 
 head. There was a skylight overhead, a convenient exit 
 for cigar smoke and an entrance for a pale, filtered imita- 
 tion of daylight. Our furnishings were of the simplest; 
 an immense shiny desk with a roll-top this to catch the 
 eye of the casual visitor and awe him with its magnifi- 
 cence and another desk of doubtful age, with a decrepit 
 slant top and hermetically sealed drawers. There was 
 also an old ark of a typewriter, second cousin to a drop 
 forge and related by sound to a McCormick reaper. 
 Stowell used this as a gymnasium. And, in the intervals 
 of his noisy pounding, we planned and discussed new 
 things. It was characteristic of these early days that we 
 always found some new difficulty to chew over after we 
 had disposed of the day's routine. 
 
 "Say," Marks would blurt out. "What the devil's the 
 matter with our windows? No good. Unattractive. 
 We've got to figure that out. Know anything about it, 
 Coffin?" 
 
 I didn't. My father's procedure scarcely applied here ; 
 his system had been to fill the windows with rakes and 
 hoes in the spring, and with a variation of oilskins and
 
 170 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 rubber boots in the fall. But I developed theories ; Marks 
 added his own observations ; Stowell arranged and classi- 
 fied them and there was another problem solved. . . . 
 
 Later I find my memories connected with our rooms 
 this must have been between the balcony office and the 
 Trumbull period. Here we had McCollom as an unsym- 
 pathetic audience; he seemed to find something funny in 
 our plans and was forever making absurd propositions 
 and egging us on to defensive arguments. We were un- 
 democratic, he asserted, unfair; we were merely taking 
 advantage of the stupidity of others, with all this elimi- 
 nation of waste and useless parts. And, as most people 
 were stupid and wasteful, we were predatory. We de- 
 prived people of the right to life, liberty and loaf. Sto- 
 well and I paid small attention to his absurdities, but 
 occasionally he drew Marks into fierce debate. Marks' 
 sense of humor was flecked with blind spots. 
 
 Last and most wonderful event of this period was our 
 first expansion. The abandonment of the balcony office 
 was the end of our period of trial. We gave up our plans 
 of autonomous financing and took on capital. This made 
 a forced maturing of our plans at once possible and ob- 
 ligatory. Greenwood and Lyons geborn Grunewald 
 and Lowengart took over a quarter interest in our plans 
 and supplied funds for early expansion. They were sus- 
 picious at first, very suspicious ; Greenwood followed 
 Marks in his explanations as one watches a magician take 
 eggs and rabbits from a hat. There must be a trick some- 
 where. Marks rather overdid the matter, for after inves- 
 tigation the pair came around and made an offer for the 
 controlling interest. We finally reached an agreement 
 of twenty-five per cent and a sliding scale of further in- 
 vestment. 
 
 We started at the Trumbull with two rooms in the rear 
 of the third floor, two dingy and inconvenient little rooms 
 looking out on a walled-in court. As we added to our 
 chain we took in more and more of the third floor. An
 
 FLOOD TIDE 171 
 
 enameled brick concern in the office beside ours moved to 
 better quarters and we acquired their space; an adver- 
 tising agency further down the corridor departed between 
 two days and their office was added to ours. The Trum- 
 bull was an outworn old trap, fallen from high estate 
 to a nursery of new fledged ventures. Firms started there, 
 but seldom remained for any length of time. They either 
 failed or moved. We stayed longer than any of our neigh- 
 bors, expanding in the Trumbull as we expanded in the 
 city. 
 
 One suite of offices we were unable to secure and we 
 finally overflowed to the floor below. This increased 
 rather than diminished our difficulties. Life became one 
 perpetual scramble up and down stairs. 
 
 This rambling, planless extension became at last a 
 positive menace. We were in danger of getting inured to 
 this lack of system ; we were becoming decentralized. Mat- 
 ters which should have passed off as mere routine became 
 stumbling blocks ; it was impossible to keep order in an 
 office which had no definite plan of being. There were 
 innumerable minor vexations ; orders were side tracked 
 and forgotten, papers were mislaid, every one was in the 
 way of every one else. To make matters still worse, the 
 warehouse which we had hired became overcrowded and a 
 great deal of Stowell's time was spent in untangling ever 
 recurrent snarls. We grew faster than we had expected 
 and our clothes began to pinch. 
 
 Marks had a final interview with the firm which held 
 tenaciously to their offices on our floor. He returned 
 flushed and angry. 
 
 "Well?" I asked. 
 
 He grew still redder in the face. "They called us a 
 damned lot of fly-by-night grocers and said that they 
 needed our offices as badly as we need theirs." 
 
 "The fly-by-night part of it was a good tip," offered 
 Stowell. "I wish we could." 
 
 "We'd better get that warehouse going as soon as we
 
 172 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 can," said Marks more calmly. "We've waited too long 
 
 as it is. But if we can bully Greenwood into it And 
 
 it'll mean that we'll have to stop growing for a while." 
 
 Some recollection of his recent interview came to him 
 and he swore under his breath. 
 
 "Let them have them, then. Lucky thing we've got 
 those plans alrteady drawn." 
 
 So we started our second period, that of the great 
 warehouse up town. But still, with all its inconveniences, 
 I like to look back on the Trumbull. It was grimy and 
 small and cockroach-infested, but every day brought 
 something new. The monotony of the later and greater 
 days was a thing of the future. I like to remember the 
 dingy old walls with their false paneling, the warped 
 old inlaid floors Stowell swore it was an imitation of 
 oil cloth the clank of the press across the court and the 
 click of typewriters from the rooms along the dusky hall- 
 way for every click and clank, so much done. 
 
 I remember long sessions of planning over the wall map 
 of the city, dotted with colored pins showing stores es- 
 tablished and projected ; long sessions of planning, schem- 
 ing and dreaming. It was all good, even to the rusty old 
 elevator which bore us up and down, always starting with 
 a jerk, like a tired old horse flicked with the whip, forever 
 threatening to die between floors and never doing it. 
 
 m 
 
 To recall these memories is like reviewing a traveled 
 road. The impressions of the first few miles are clearer 
 and sharper than those which come after the senses are 
 dulled by fatigue. Even so the impressions of the first 
 few years of The Stores are clearer than those of the 
 later and greater days. 
 
 These were the Great Days of Little Things. It was 
 a time of engrossment in trifles, of testing and rejection, 
 of incessant search for the best and simplest methods of
 
 FLOOD TIDE 173 
 
 doing business. Every small trouble was big to us then, 
 big because in its solution lay the solution of greater 
 troubles later on. The three Mother Stores were labo- 
 ratories in which we tested out our theories, changing, 
 readjusting, discarding sometimes, but always working 
 toward the inevitable formula. 
 
 During the later years of The Stores I used to look 
 back on these first days as a sort of Heroic Age. Seen 
 through the mists of distance the three of us appeared as 
 supermen, always building well and wisely, never falter- 
 ing in purpose, forever judging and disposing with su- 
 perior wisdom. But now I see that we were only two 
 ordinary young men and a middle aged man, after all. 
 We made mistakes, many mistakes ; we disregarded advice, 
 flew in the face of common sense, failed to see the most 
 obvious truths until we were clubbed into seeing and 
 came through it safely after all. That is now my main 
 source of wonder. 
 
 We were very fortunate. Our good fortune came not 
 only in that we got more than our share of the "breaks" 
 of the game, but in the way the right people came to us 
 at the right time. We were favored of the gods. Jimmy 
 Golderick had a run-in with Hatherly, threw up his job 
 and came over to us. A friend of Stowell's drifted in 
 and revolutionized our purchasing system before he tired 
 of New York and drifted out again. Miss Davenant 
 came, first as an occasional stenographer from the agency 
 around the corner, later, at Stowell's suggestion, as a reg- 
 ular member of the staff. She was and is wonderful 
 in all ways. Our files became files instead of disorderly 
 accumulations and Marks bellowed helplessly when he mis- 
 placed a requisition sheet. She stayed with us six years 
 and each year became more indispensable; she graduated 
 from typist to statistician to advertising expert those 
 little topheavy figures which featured the later advertising 
 of The Stores were her creation until finally she grad- 
 uated out of The Stores entirely.
 
 174 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 We expanded and prospered. Marks took a place out 
 in Connecticut and acquired a motor. Stowell and I 
 financed the rebuilding of the old rooms on the lower 
 West Side, just above the wholesale district. Worthing- 
 ton suggested it, I think, I planned it, and Stowell car- 
 ried it out. McCollom sat about and told the world how 
 much better he would do it. For a while we lived in a 
 wilderness of plaster and torn-out partitions, but grad- 
 ually order came out of chaos. There was one large room 
 across the front with a fireplace, long hidden beneath 
 plaster and now brought to light, across one end; there 
 was a long window seat beneath the low row of casements 
 which looked out over a jumble of roofs and a distant 
 glimpse of the river. In the rear were four chambers and 
 a box of a kitchen, presided over by Skip, now emanci- 
 pated from scrubbing and installed as joint valet, occa- 
 sional cook and grand custodian of the dust rag. 
 
 We refurnished and redecorated, Worthington con- 
 tributing startling examples of modern art and the rest 
 of us following our own bents. McCollom contributed 
 nothing save sundry decorations of a purely temporary 
 character in the shape of wearing apparel strewn about 
 the living room. He was a great deal of a nuisance. I 
 had sent down from Whitehaven some of the best of my 
 daubs and the old model of a frigate that had stood on 
 the book case at home. "The Pirate Barque," Worthing- 
 ton insisted on calling her, and regaled our visitors with 
 bloody tales of the slaver of which he swore she was a 
 model. 
 
 "That's why Coffin is so mysterious and broody," he 
 would whisper. "Black ivory, you know; foundation of 
 the family fortune. They say that at times shhh! here 
 he is!" And the unsophisticated visitor would gaze on 
 me with awe, as a man accursed and haunted.
 
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH 
 
 THE warehouse was Stowell's work. Our expansion 
 ceased during the building of this central ganglion and 
 he came in to supervise the construction. He enjoyed 
 dealing again with the clean actualities of concrete and 
 steel; in fact, we all took a deal of pleasure in it. Even 
 Greenwood and Lyons were faintly pleased, although they 
 made the inevitable objections to the expense. 
 
 I remember particularly one day when we inspected the 
 nearly completed building Sunday it must have been, for 
 there were no workmen around. We wandered about, Sto- 
 well acting as guide. We inspected the shipping rooms 
 on the first floor, and, in vision, saw the arcade at one 
 end filled with rows of trucks. 
 
 "Motor trucks, when they get through experimenting 
 with 'em," said Marks. "Notice how they've just copied 
 horse trucks, high seat and all?" 
 
 We passed on, climbing half completed stairs and rough 
 ladders, to the office floor above. We paused there a 
 while, surveying the vast expanse of flooring with the three 
 rows of stubby pillars, the batteries of elevators at either 
 end, the sprouts and indications of partitions that would 
 later divide one department from another. Above that 
 was the warehouse proper, three floors with webs of steel 
 truckways converging on the elevators. 
 
 Marks looked wise over some blueprints on a rough 
 table. Stowell explained to me, in words of one syllable, 
 that the scrolls and whorls of whitewash on the windows 
 were not evidence of delicacy and desire for privacy on 
 the part of the builders. 
 
 175
 
 176 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "So they won't mistake glass for air and try to throw 
 stuff through it," he explained. "It's as big as a drill 
 hall, isn't it? We should have kept the old boat to run 
 around in." 
 
 I agreed absently. This structure of concrete, steel 
 and glass was the proof of success. This was permanent. 
 The last of my fears vanished; this was an end of the 
 doubts and presages of disaster which had oppressed me 
 at our start. 
 
 "We're there," I said aloud. 
 
 "Forty ways," agreed Stowell, taking the phrase as 
 slang. 
 
 "We've arrived, I mean. I've been afraid, but that's 
 over with. I'm convinced." 
 
 "Convinced of what?" interjected Marks. 
 
 "That we've succeeded." 
 
 "We have, after a fashion." He looked around, half 
 satisfied and yet half frowning. "We've got a good foun- 
 dation, if that's what you mean. We can start to do 
 things now." He hummed absent-mindedly for a moment, 
 his eyes fixed on some distant vision, then returned to 
 his blue print. 
 
 Stowell looked at him with faint traces of amusement. 
 "We can pay some attention to our people now, for one 
 thing," he advanced. 
 
 Marks challenged him with a glance. "For instance?" 
 
 "Our responsibility to them doesn't end with the pay 
 envelope," Dick answered. 
 
 "You're still thinking of that educational stunt of 
 yours, then," Marks asserted. "Well, there might be 
 money in it. ... As for this being the end you're off 
 your feed, Coffin." 
 
 I was conscious of my first feeling of distaste for The 
 Stores. I was satisfied, in a way, with what we had built ; 
 Stowell and Marks saw my source of satisfaction only as 
 a secure foundation for further structures. Still it was 
 merely a momentary dissatisfaction, a swift and transient
 
 FLOOD TIDE 177 
 
 blurring of the mirror. I had found the Ultima Thule of 
 my ambitions ; it hurt me to have these others consider 
 it merely as a point of departure. 
 
 "Say," said Marks, looking up from the blue print. 
 "Do you suppose that we could add a couple of wings, 
 one at each end, some day?" 
 
 At that time I was unconscious of any flagging of my 
 interest in The Stores. I realized, in a dim way, that 
 Marks and Stowell had discovered new interests while I 
 had not. But there was no apparent change in our re- 
 lations. We worked together, as before. Perhaps Marks 
 was a bit more self assertive than in the Tmmbull days; 
 perhaps Stowell was more engrossed in his own plans 
 than in carrying out mine. I'm not sure. As I say, at 
 this time I was only faintly aware of this shadow of per- 
 sonal failure that bordered our shining business success. 
 
 Marks, I know, became daily more aggressive, more 
 sure of himself. He became staccato in his speech, abrupt 
 like Hatherly, in fact. I wonder if the habit of steno- 
 graphic dictation is evolving a new manner of speech among 
 us? With our success his emotions came nearer the sur- 
 face; he abandoned the old suggestive, conciliatory 
 method. "Nonsense!" became a favorite term of his. 
 
 Stowell also changed. His plans materialized in his 
 school system. 
 
 "Carrying the Torch," he called it. During the latter 
 days of the Trumbull period we had found difficulty in 
 selecting men for promotion. We expanded rapidly, so 
 rapidly that we lost personal touch with our employees. 
 We made mistakes; flashy men "morning-glories" 
 came to the top; we promoted on recommendation and 
 suffered from the inevitable aftermath of wire-pulling and 
 discontent. There was an intangible slackening in the
 
 178 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 work, a subtle lack of interest which we recognized but 
 were unable to isolate. Stowell finally found it. 
 
 "The trouble is," he expounded, "that these people 
 haven't the slightest idea what they're doing. They're 
 mechanical. They know that they're selling stuff and 
 keeping books, but they haven't the least idea why they're 
 doing it or just where their work fits in the whole." 
 
 "Nine- tenths of them do just enough work to keep their 
 jobs," growled Marks. 
 
 "They need education," affirmed Stowell. "And I'm 
 going to give it to them. I'm no LL. D. but I think I can 
 swing it." 
 
 So he wrote his book, or rather he and McCollom com- 
 piled it. This was the first and last service McCollom 
 did for us; soon after that he received a legacy of a few 
 thousand and became editor of the Tri-County something 
 or other out in Illinois and we saw no more of him. 
 
 The book was nothing more than a treatise on ele- 
 mentary economics, intermixed with a clear account of 
 the conduct of The Stores and with illustrations drawn 
 from that source. From first to last it was clear and 
 concise, free from technicalities, very simple and yet illu- 
 minating. Marks frowned on it at first but was soon won 
 over. 
 
 "We're not running a publishing house, Stowell," he 
 objected. 
 
 "But we are running a business," answered Dick, "and 
 our success rests first and last on the interest our people 
 show in it. They can't be interested in a thing unless they 
 have at least a dim idea of what it's all about." 
 
 "How are you going to make them read it?" 
 
 "Conduct examinations. No promotions for any one 
 until he understands what he's doing." 
 
 Marks was noncommittal. 
 
 "Merely a matter of creating ambition through under- 
 standing," explained Stowell. "Read it yourself; we can 
 always learn something."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 179 
 
 It brought the desired results. After that I think that 
 there was a keener interest throughout the whole web ; our 
 people saw themselves as parts of the whole and not as 
 fragments dropped at random. There is always a ten- 
 dency for each man to make his particular position a 
 "mystery" ; to discourage those below him by putting on 
 an air of importance. We did away with this. Men in 
 general have a childish fear of the unknown; take away 
 the mystery and they lose their fear. 
 
 As a supplement to this educational scheme Stowell and 
 Miss Davenant started the weekly paper which was the 
 final link in binding the loose structure of our stores to- 
 gether. It was a small affair of four pages, not so much 
 a paper as a weekly report. There is a stimulus in see- 
 ing one's name in print which can be secured in no other 
 way. This paper created a healthy rivalry between units 
 and brought results in the form of increased sales. Marks 
 chuckled in delight. 
 
 This torch carrying reacted on Stowell. A department 
 store down town awoke to the fact that we were getting 
 results in a novel manner. Stowell was invited to ex- 
 plain. A Philadelphia publishing house sent over an in- 
 vestigator. Allardyce, of Columbia, offered suggestions 
 based on theoretical sociology. After a time Stowell be- 
 came expert in discussion of "fields" ; he dripped odds 
 and ends of sociological jargon. He developed a credit- 
 able platform presence, after some early failures, and 
 became more deeply involved in spreading light. Marks 
 viewed with alarm. 
 
 Then, lastly and inevitably, Stowell became a victim 
 of the amateur welfare workers these enthusiastic and 
 sometimes misguided people who vicariously experience 
 poverty by shifting their interest from society to society. 
 He addressed Committees of Ten, Committees of One Hun- 
 dred, Committees which were even more brazen in adver- 
 tising their intent Shopgirl's Leagues and Amelioration 
 Associations of one sort or another. Sometimes weeks
 
 180 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 passed with Stowell engaged for every afternoon and eren- 
 ing. Marks became disgusted. 
 
 "Off again?" he asked, with a touch of sarcasm in his 
 voice. 
 
 "Yours truly, Finnigin," answered Stowell briskly. 
 He whistled to himself. 
 
 "And this time?" pursued Marks. 
 
 "Calpurnia Club. They thirst for information on our 
 work." 
 
 "Important, no doubt?" 
 
 "Rather. Allardyce will be there," Stowell defended. 
 
 "I've no doubt but it's perfectly respectable," said 
 Marks dryly. "You've settled this matter of the Eighth 
 Avenue store?" 
 
 "Leave that to Conklin, can't you?" Stowell smiled un- 
 easily as he caught Marks' accusing eye. "I know, I'm 
 getting into this stuff pretty deep. That's the second 
 time in a week I've shoved things off on Conklin." 
 
 "Perhaps Conklin appreciates his new responsibility," 
 said Marks flatly. "I'm sure we don't." 
 
 Stowell was silent for a moment. "I'll be through at 
 five o'clock," he offered finally. "Why can't you call for 
 me on your way home? Bring Coffin and we'll decide that 
 to-night." 
 
 Marks assented ungraciously. "We've got to take you 
 when we can get you, I suppose." 
 
 Stowell disregarded the implied complaint. "You know 
 the place, don't you?" He named the town, a semi-fash- 
 ionable suburb. "Call for me any time after five ; I'll cut 
 the talk short and then we'll have the whole evening to 
 ourselves." 
 
 He swung out, vastly pleased with himself. 
 
 Marks voiced his complaint. "Calpurnia Club! A lot 
 of women with nothing to take up their time, most likely. 
 Loafers. I know the kind. They listen and you get a 
 vote of thanks and then they forget all about it. It's a
 
 FLOOD TIDE 181 
 
 waste of time and I don't see why Stowell persists in it. 
 Now if he'd get interested in something useful ' 
 
 "Like raising hogs?" I suggested. 
 
 "Like raising hogs," he assented. "You get some re- 
 turn out of that." 
 
 Some queer twist of revolt against ritualistic restraint 
 had led Marks to turn ten acres of his Connecticut place 
 into a model piggery. His sows and his motors were his 
 sole interests outside The Stores. 
 
 "I've a good mind not to call for him after all," he 
 meditated. 
 
 in 
 
 But we called for him, despite Marks' threat. We 
 found the place after repeated inquiries along the road. 
 It proved a converted dwelling house, evidently newly re- 
 modeled for the uses of a Civic Center. 
 
 "I wish there was some way of getting Stowell away 
 from this stuff," complained Marks as we drew alongside 
 the curb. He regarded the building morosely. " 'Civic 
 Center.' Huh! Huh! Going in? I'll wait here." 
 
 He snorted disapproval and started figuring on the 
 back of an envelope. 
 
 I went in. A wooden faced colored maid in a neat apron 
 regarded me with stolid suspicion. I explained my errand 
 and was directed to double doors at the end of the hall. 
 Through the oval glass I saw Stowell at the further end 
 of the room. I retain an impression of scattered chairs, 
 some forty of them at the further end of the room occu- 
 pied by animate femininity, the nearer ones decorated with 
 inanimate femininity in the form of furs. Stowell caught 
 my accusing eye and glanced at his watch. Through the 
 door I caught his muffled voice: 
 
 " and so, in summary " 
 
 He swept on to a brief conclusion, bowed, had his re- 
 ward in a thin patter of gloved applause, and vanished 
 in a side room.
 
 182 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 The chairwoman rose, a regal creature in shimmer- 
 ing black lace, evidently embarrassed by his abrupt con- 
 clusion. 
 
 "I'm sure that we owe Mr. ," she consulted her notes 
 furtively, " Mr. Stowell our thanks. I feel that he has 
 illuminated matters for all of us. But since there is yet 
 some time left ; " 
 
 Amid a flutter and subdued buzz she went on to the 
 discussion of finances and a projected series of readings. 
 One of the women rose and came down through the scat- 
 tered seats toward the door. She looked back as she 
 came ; something in her half averted profile seemed famil- 
 iar. She stooped and caught up her furs, swung them 
 over her arm and came on. I recognized Elizabeth. 
 
 She reached the swinging doors without seeing me ; no 
 doubt my face was only a blur behind the glass. She 
 swung the door aside and stepped through. She looked 
 up. Her furs slipped to the floor and I bent to recover 
 them, the blood drumming in my temples. When I 
 straightened again the look of blank surprise was gone. 
 She smiled. 
 
 "Two ghosts in one day !" she said, and extended a slim 
 hand. I mumbled something, I imagine. She surveyed 
 me, her color returning. "First Dick and then you ! Per- 
 haps you're going to speak, too?" 
 
 I shook my head. "I came to get Stowell." 
 
 "You don't care about uplifting," she interpreted. 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 "Yes and no," she considered. "We all have to look 
 out for ourselves, you know. But it helps and it's fash- 
 ionable now." Then, abruptly, she swung to questioning. 
 "Your The Stores, was it? I've peeked into some of 
 your places. It's been a success, then?" 
 
 "We're making money." 
 
 "Of course. But tell me about it." 
 
 I told her; that is, I spoke whatever fragments con- 
 cerning The Stores came uppermost in my mind. It was
 
 FLOOD TIDE 183 
 
 all utterly incomprehensible, I know. Yet Elizabeth kept 
 up a running fire of comment not comment, but catch 
 phrases. "Really!" "How interesting!" She was as- 
 tonished, pleased. "Fancy!" she commented frequently. 
 Quite evidently alertness had become a pose with her. 
 
 "But I don't place you here," I said finally. 
 
 "We've been here nearly two years. You didn't know? 
 The row Phil had with his uncle? We came here after 
 that. But it's hard getting started." 
 
 I looked questions. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "Making friends prefer- 
 ably people with money. They invest." Her tone im- 
 plied a certain cynicism. "But we do very well." 
 
 There was an air of boasting, of paraded success, in 
 her tone. She broke off to smile Jmghtly at a gray- 
 haired, stately creature who rustled by us, arms filled with 
 papers, bound on errands of great import. The stately 
 woman thrawed slightly and vanished with a click of high 
 heels. 
 
 "Mrs. Roberts," Elizabeth volunteered. "Her husband 
 is Roberts and Company wool, you know. I am on two 
 committees with her." 
 
 I was duly impressed. Still, with all my soul, I wanted 
 to get away, to run. Elizabeth shifted to a new line, 
 doubtless suggested by Mrs. Roberts. She became delib- 
 erately lyrical about Learoyd's success. I listened me- 
 chanically. They had been abroad, I remember ; there was 
 mention of Pinehurst, of Tampa, of somebody's shack in 
 the Adirondacks. I think now that she was deliberately 
 cruel. At the time I was conscious only of the feeling 
 that this was a bad dream and I would awake presently. 
 This present Elizabeth was not the Elizabeth I had 
 known. She was nervous ; her gestures spoke of living at 
 high tension. She was coarsened in grain, on the sur- 
 face, at least. A subcurrent of cynicism was evident in 
 all her talk. And it was quite evident that her boasting 
 was only boasting, after all.
 
 184 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "But I was born to be discontented," I remember her 
 saying. She must have realized the discrepancy between 
 her success and her discontent. 
 
 Through the oval glass in the door Stowell appeared, 
 at the further end of the auditorium. I welcomed his ap- 
 pearance as a relief from an intolerable situation. 
 
 "You wanted to see Stowell?" I asked. She followed 
 my gesture. 
 
 "Why, yes." The meeting had broken up and the 
 chairwoman intercepted Stowell. He smiled and fidgeted 
 nervously with his watch chain. Elizabeth turned and 
 spoke decidedly. "No ; not now. But if you'll bring him 
 out some time you must. Come yourself, at least. 
 Here," and she gave me her card. "You will, won't you ?" 
 
 She smiled appealingly. 
 
 "I'm afraid " 
 
 "I'll not let Phil talk investments," she said quickly. 
 "Please." 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "That's no kind of a promise." 
 
 "I'll try." 
 
 "Do. Good-by." 
 
 She vanished as Stowell bumped the door on my heels. 
 
 "Pardon oh, it's you!" he said. "Come on. Some- 
 body nail you for a charity subscription?" 
 
 "Something in that line." 
 
 We neared Marks' place before I tore up the card that 
 Elizabeth had given me and dribbled the fragments over 
 the side of the car unread. 
 
 I had no desire to see Elizabeth again. I regretted 
 having seen her. To one of my temperament, disillusion 
 is a physical pain. Elizabeth, buried in memory, had 
 not turned to aureate earth. She was artificial, unreal, 
 shallow. 
 
 I shook off the last fragments of her card and broke 
 in on Marks' explanation of his figures.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 185 
 
 "You'll have to give up this uplift stunt of yours, Sto- 
 well," I said abruptly. 
 
 "Is that so? Why?" 
 
 "I'm thinking of going away for a while." 
 
 "Vacation? Go ahead," he advised generously. 
 
 Marks turned and regarded me, swaying to and fro 
 with the lurching of the car. "That's one way," he con- 
 ceded, "but " 
 
 His approval or disapproval meant nothing to me. I 
 was suddenly tired of work, tired of everything. This 
 meeting of Elizabeth awoke in me no emotion save a vague 
 disgust with the entire business of life. . . . 
 
 My "vacation," in all, lasted three months. I remem- 
 ber it now as a blank period of formless unrest. I re- 
 member Chicago and a dreary autumn wind off the lake. 
 I recall a succession of sleeping cars and resultant head- 
 aches. There was a week spent in investigating a system 
 of chain stores in St. Louis and a vast accumulation of 
 notes which ultimately went into the river as the train 
 pulled slowly across. I wandered about, like a man in a 
 stuffy, ill-ventilated room on a rainy day, gazing through 
 blurred panes at the dripping world. 
 
 And I'm not sure whether or not Elizabeth had any- 
 thing to do with this dingy discontent. I know that 1 
 was glad, after all, that we hadn't married. Glad, and 
 yet dimly sorry. We seemed both to have turned out 
 something different than we had promised. Perhaps to- 
 gether 
 
 I was secretly relieved when Marks telegraphed hys- 
 terically for me to return. 
 
 I came back to find the existence of The Stores threat- 
 ened. Pingree, a protege of mine, had copied our ideas, 
 our organization, even our plans for further expansion. 
 He had secured capital and started with four stores, with
 
 186 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 more in immediate prospect. Marks was frothily denun- 
 ciatory of Pingree and his forbears to the fourth gener- 
 ation. He raved up and down the office, going off into 
 occasional skyrocket ascents of language. Stowell 
 watched him, faintly amused and yet apparently not 
 agreeing. 
 
 Finally I understood and Marks came down to earth. 
 
 "Well," he said briskly, "what are we going to do about 
 it?" 
 
 "Stop him, if we can," I said briefly. "What do you 
 say, Stowell?" 
 
 "He has queer ideas, you know," volunteered Marks 
 in elaborate courtesy. "Brotherhood of man Pingree's 
 divine right to do as he pleases that sort of stuff." 
 
 It was evident that Stowell and Marks held differing 
 opinions regarding Pingree. 
 
 "What do you say?" I reiterated. 
 
 Stowell turned from the window. "Marks seems to 
 have stated my position," he said slowly. "I object 
 at present. You can't stop Pingree from getting a start ; 
 it's too late for that. And before you start a fight well, 
 I advise that you investigate." 
 
 Marks hesitated a moment, started to voice an objec- 
 tion, and then agreed. 
 
 "But take my word for it," he stated, "we've got to 
 fight and that's all there is to it. We can't dodge it." 
 
 We found out a good deal during the next week. Marks 
 and I had an interview with Pingree which ended by all 
 three of us losing our tempers. What irritated me was 
 the fact that Pingree had made decided improvements 
 on some of my best ideas. Couple that with the man's 
 air of superiority and coolness and you see that we had 
 sufficient cause for high words. I have a suspicion that 
 Pingree had some hidden grudge against us. Or per-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 187 
 
 haps his idea of being competitive was being brutally dis- 
 courteous. Certainly he made no attempt at conciliation. 
 
 "Then you're quite determined to buck us, are you?" 
 asked Marks finally. 
 
 Pingree rose and stretched. "If you demand a posi- 
 tive answer yes. We're going to wipe you right off 
 your little map and then burn the map." 
 
 Then Marks went off in a pyrotechnic display of pro- 
 fanity and I got him away as soon as possible. Marks 
 in a temper was scarcely a dignified object. 
 
 We had a grand pow-wow over it that afternoon, made 
 our decision and started our fight started our side of it, 
 for Pingree had already begun. Stowell still held out for 
 conciliation. 
 
 "I know," he said. Marks had stated that we must 
 either fight or be content with half success. "That's 
 your view of it. You may be right." 
 
 "I am right," affirmed Marks. "If we don't bust them, 
 they'll bust us. There's no middle ground. Either speed 
 up and get ahead or eat dust. Wipe us off the map, 
 will he ! We can do a little of that ourselves. It'll mean 
 a loss; we'll have to disregard expense. But it's going 
 to be expensive, either way." 
 
 He swung to and fro, trying to face both of us at once. 
 
 "Now or later?" he asked. "Let them get a start and 
 we'll have the same trouble to meet over and over again. 
 We can't afford to let them get started." 
 
 "There's a third way that you haven't mentioned," said 
 Stowell. 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "To let them get established and then buy them out. 
 You say that their plan is almost the same as ours why 
 not let them do the work for us and then take their pay ? 
 I hang it all, I'm against this war-to-the-knife stuff ; I've 
 never liked it and never will. It's contrary to my sense 
 of business ethics; I believe in giving the other fellow a 
 fair chance. It's as you say, I suppose. But we've got
 
 188 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 no patent on our ideas and well, I honestly believe that 
 we'd better let them go." He was genuinely distressed 
 at the prospect of conflict. 
 
 "I don't like it any more than you do," replied Marks. 
 "It's dirty, for one thing, and for another it's expensive 
 damned expensive. But follow your idea to its logical 
 conclusion. Yo,u'd let this Pingree get established. Well 
 and good. What then? We'd either have to buy him 
 out and pay seven prices, even supposing we could buy 
 him out we could consolidate with him which would 
 mean a radical change in our plans or we could give up 
 our plans entirely. If you could show me any other way 
 out but there isn't any. No. It's his fight and we can't 
 dodge it." 
 
 "Don't be a confounded Copperhead, Stowell," I ob- 
 jected. 
 
 He stared for a moment and then caught the allusion. 
 " 'Let the erring sisters depart in peace'?" he inquired. 
 "That hardly applies. They're not erring sisters." 
 
 "It's the same spirit," I answered. "Non-resistance 
 the sacred rights of others and the rest of that junk. It's 
 Chinese philosophy." 
 
 Marks contributed something about "bastard children." 
 But he rather surprised me by the patience with which he 
 met Stowell's arguments ; for my part I could see no sense 
 in them. Pingree had originated nothing. He was merely 
 using our own weapons against us ; why shouldn't we 
 fight? Stowell was right in one tiling; business warfare 
 was essentially dirty with no trace of anything honorable 
 about it. But like many disagreeable things, it was neces- 
 sary. I could see no other course open to us. Neither 
 could Marks. And Stowell finally gave in. 
 
 "Well, which is it?" I asked impatiently. "You're talk- 
 ing in circles. I'm for smashing them, myself." 
 
 "Smash," voted Marks. 
 
 We both looked at Stowell. "Fight, then," he said. 
 "I'll do my best."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 189 
 
 VI 
 
 So it started. It was a bitter war, all that Marks had 
 prophesied; a war with the traditional features of raids, 
 reprisals, propaganda and the inevitable protests and 
 profits of neutrals. Altogether it lasted a year and more. 
 During that time we went through the travail of reorgan- 
 ization ; we fought Pingree and fought among ourselves ; 
 we had endless trouble with Greenwood and Lyons; we 
 went through alternating triumphs and defeats, hesitated 
 for a while on the brink of failure, and finally emerged 
 stronger than before, free forever from the bugbear of 
 competition. It left us all changed. Marks throve on 
 the fight and found new ambitions. Stowell did his share, 
 as he had promised, but did it without enthusiasm. The 
 very form and purpose of The Stores changed. I crowded 
 five years' work into one. And I had once gone about 
 Whitehaven with a plan for the elimination of competi- 
 tion ! We were eliminating competition, but not exactly 
 in the way I had planned then. 
 
 We speeded up in every department. In four months 
 our advertising expenses quadrupled; other expenses in- 
 creased in proportion. We drained our established stores 
 of their best men, abandoned our plans for slow and sure 
 expansion and made the crushing of Pingree our one ob- 
 ject. At first we were content to follow his lead; later we 
 anticipated his moves. We had our spy system as well as 
 he. For a while Pingree met us, forcing the fight, in fact. 
 Any lingering compunctions which I might have enter- 
 tained about the justice of our course were jettisoned 
 when he cut prices below cost. 
 
 "Trying to bluff us, eh?" grunted Marks. "We'll see 
 him and go him one better." 
 
 We did. For a time the two campaigns that of es- 
 tablishing new places and cutting prices went on side by 
 side. Pingree weakened first on price cutting; we went 
 a shade below him and rested there.
 
 190 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 But before Pingree showed this preliminary sign of de- 
 feat, Greenwood and Lyons went back on us quit cold. 
 For three months and more they had bothered us, prying 
 about singly and together questioning, objecting, offer- 
 ing futile suggestions and gradually progressing from 
 doubt through successive stages of disapproval to final 
 and utter panic. We were spending too much money ; 
 they hinted darkly that the whole Middle West was be- 
 hind Allison, Pingree's backer; they demanded compro- 
 mise where compromise was manifestly impossible and out 
 of the question. They "went Jewish," as the Russians 
 call Hebraic hysteria. They wasted an entire week of 
 our time with alternate cajolings and blustering. 
 Through some channel they learned that Stowell was not 
 in complete sympathy with our steam roller tactics ; as a 
 last resort they tried to swing him over without result. 
 And in a final desperation they agreed to sell out their in- 
 terest if we could find a purchaser. 
 
 Marks found one. He did more ; still keeping the con- 
 trol in the hands of the three of us he obtained funds to 
 carry on the fight indefinitely. I think that it was a short 
 note written under a certain letterhead and signed with 
 a great sprawling signature which caused Allison to draw 
 in his horns. That note and I am convinced that it was 
 written at Marks' suggestion changed the complexion of 
 affairs. I saw Pingree a week after that and pitied him 
 for the first time. 
 
 That was really the end, perhaps not the end but cer- 
 tainly the turning point. Greenwood and Lyons tried 
 to hedge on their agreement. The name on the letter- 
 head was guarantee that their appraisal of our success 
 was false. They never quite forgave Marks ; I think that 
 to this day they look upon our entire year of trouble as 
 a scheme to force them out of The Stores. They never 
 forgot.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 191 
 
 vn 
 
 This business warfare affected us all in one way or an- 
 other, as I have said, but its effects are things apart from 
 this chapter. I shall have to come back to them later. 
 Now that I am upon this thread of our development from 
 far reaching plans to a no less expansive reality I wish 
 to stay on it, to follow it to the end, and then come back 
 to what is, after all, the main thread of my story. 
 
 It seems but a step, as I look back on it, from our 
 office at the warehouse to our final quarters on lower 
 Broadway. In reality it was a matter of years. After 
 our recovery from the Pingree incident we filled in our 
 territory rapidly. As we grew, the growth of the purely 
 local section of the warehouse became a serious incon- 
 venience. 
 
 We had, to quote Marks, "no more privacy than a push 
 cart man." We moved down town again, this time to 
 offices of our own. 
 
 This was the shell we never outgrew, the final stage to 
 which all the rest was but preliminary. There was noth- 
 ing small about our projects now. We worked on mat- 
 ters which we had realized but dimly at first, things which 
 had been only provisional possibilities. We had built 
 up from the strata of everyday business into the rarefied 
 atmosphere above. We received the final accolade we 
 and the men of our subordinate companies were referred to 
 as "The Grocery Crowd." We never reached the sky- 
 towering heights of the other "crowds" railroads and 
 steel and rubber and the others ; ours was one of the minor 
 pinnacles which pass unnoticed because of their proximity 
 to these greater peaks. 
 
 And there was nothing small about our headquarters. 
 In our new offices we achieved something of that somber 
 richness which should accompany the working out of great 
 things. 
 
 We had the entire tenth floor of the new building
 
 192 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 two floors, in fact, for the first break in the upward sweep 
 came here and what was really the eleventh floor was in- 
 cluded in our office. We had our own ideas of what we 
 wanted and these two floors gave us the chance to work 
 them out in the great central office which Townsend, the 
 architect, at first declared impossible and afterward re- 
 ferred to with pride. It was an office of hushed ecclesi- 
 astical atmosphere, of indirectly-lit vaults overhead, of 
 solidity and spaced rows of desks; an office deeply reso- 
 nant with the muffled hum of the worshipers at the 
 Shrine. The Shrine itself so christened by Worthing- 
 ton was a duplication of the old wall map, a vast ex- 
 panse of buff and soft blue with the network of The 
 Stores picked out in glowing red and deeper blue. 
 
 It comes back to me, as a detail of the furnishing of 
 our own inner offices, that Marks developed a hobby for 
 collecting figures of elephants ; little elephants in bronze 
 and ivory stood on his desk; elephants peered from the 
 corners in all sizes and attitudes, trumpeting, waving 
 branches and standing in serene immobility. One of these 
 larger figures, carved from a great block of ebony and 
 with deep-set twinkling eyes of some red stone, proved the 
 downfall of many of the men who came to us with propo- 
 sitions; the head and tail and even the eyes were actu- 
 ated by some hidden mechanism and I have seen many 
 carefully thought out schemes break down and show their 
 inner weaknesses under the subtle and distracting influ- 
 ence of this beast. "Old Genghis Khan," as Marks called 
 him, did us good service many times with his rolling little 
 eyes and twitching tail and nodding head. When we 
 adopted a seal he had the place of honor on it ; he was the 
 original of the black elephant on the buff and blue back- 
 ground which has since become familiar as the stamp of 
 our products. 
 
 This office, with its quiet soberness and its exotic ele- 
 phantine figures, was the heart of everything in these days. 
 Into it flowed the revenue of all our subsidiary branches ;
 
 FLOOD TIDE 193 
 
 we dipped out what we pleased and turned it into new 
 channels. It was the center of two webs ; the network of 
 The Stores and this other web, supplementary but of 
 scarcely less importance, which we were weaving. 
 
 In time the weaving of this supplementary web became 
 our main interest. At first the management of The Stores 
 was the sole business carried on from the new office, 
 but in time it became a subordinate interest, although we 
 never gave it up entirely. We followed out steadily our 
 policy of training up men to do our work and passed on 
 ahead, reaching out, grasping, turning over the details to 
 the men who followed us and then reaching out for 
 more. 
 
 We became manufacturers, as well as wholesalers and 
 retailers. We pushed our own products, the familiar 
 Buff and Blue brands of canned and cartoned stuff. Later 
 we incorporated our specialties under General Canneries 
 and Corn Products and in a measure relaxed control of 
 them. Altogether, in the last days, there were between 
 twenty and thirty of these minor companies, each a thriv- 
 ing business in itself, under our control. Our hold on 
 them became even more indirect during the first days of 
 the Sherman Anti-Trust frenzy, but to the last a large 
 proportion of their profits flowed into the general 
 offices. . . . 
 
 This second web was entirely Marks' work, as the ini- 
 tial conception of the first web was mine. 
 
 There is one point which becomes clearer to me as I 
 survey these greater days of The Stores. I see Marks 
 as the dominating figure in The Stores. My part and 
 Stowell's too, until he left us was subordinate. I was 
 a burned out battery, a drag on the wheels. From di- 
 recting and in a measure controlling, I slipped back and 
 became a cog in the machinery. I still evolved ideas, but 
 they came mechanically. And they were failures. I 
 never quite got hold of the larger aspects of Marks' 
 schemes. The Brazilian coffee scheme was my best effort
 
 194 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 during- this time. It ended in abject failure. I put 
 through the San Jacinto irrigation project and as a re- 
 sult involved The Stores in endless litigation. After these 
 abortive attempts at leadership I gave it up and followed 
 Marks. 
 
 I must have changed in other ways. Perhaps I have 
 never been noted as the possessor of a bright and smiling 
 face, but I remember passing a knot of typists, at lunch 
 hour. One of them held forth on some grievance. 
 
 "Gloomy Gus !" she said. "On the level, Gertie, if you 
 stuck a pin in that man he'd bleed ink !" 
 
 Some one nudged her and she looked up in open 
 mouthed horror. I had no doubts as to the identity of 
 "Gloomy Gus." 
 
 But I am not going into these later days of The Stores. 
 That is Marks' story and not mine. He developed amaz- 
 ingly as time went on ; he absorbed Stowell's practicality 
 and my imaginative quality, made them his own and sur- 
 passed us both. He became self-sufficient. 
 
 He dominates all my memories of these later days, al- 
 ways reaching out and grasping, always building and 
 piling up and adding, and always growing as the second 
 web grew under his hands.
 
 CHAPTER THE FIFTH 
 
 So far this has been a story of growth, interrupted at 
 times, but still steadily progressing against all obstacles 
 and sometimes against all sense. I have traced the growth 
 of my imagination and the growth of The Stores, the child 
 of that imagination. Now another element enters, an ele- 
 ment which I have discovered since I began to write. 
 
 This new element is that of decay. I began to break 
 away from The Stores ; not so much a breaking away as 
 a slow and gradual loss of interest. I never broke away 
 entirely. It was a loss so slow and gradual that even 
 now I fail to see it clearly; it is difficult to tell exactly 
 when growth ceased and decay started. I have been set- 
 ting down all sorts of inconsequential things, trying to 
 produce order from them and determine just where my 
 grip began to relax. I find it very hard. I know that 
 Stowell lost interest at the time of our unfortunate fight 
 with Pingree; I know that Marks never lost interest. I 
 can see these things in others but not in myself. I must 
 have grown and decayed at the same time, as a tree grows 
 and is sound to all outward appearances but is still rotten 
 at heart. 
 
 I am not sure, but I think that the decay started with 
 the very beginning of The Stores. Until the doors of our 
 first three stores opened they had been no more than a 
 mere mental conception; as they assumed the aspect of 
 reality my attitude toward them underwent a change. 
 There is at once a satisfaction and a disappointment in 
 seeing the creations of our imagination take on substance. 
 My attitude toward The Stores changed again when we 
 '195 .
 
 196 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 moved from the Trumbull to the warehouse; I had feared 
 failure before that, and with this assurance of success that 
 fear and incentive to work was removed. I changed for 
 a third time with our removal to lower Broadway. 
 
 One thing is clear; I shall have to go back to pick up 
 this thread of decay ; I have carried the story of growth 
 beyond the inception of my loss of interest. But I shall 
 go back no further than the end of our fight with Pin- 
 gree. Stowell left us during the year following that, and 
 with his going came my first self-examination and dis- 
 satisfaction. The decay was present before that, but it 
 was hidden so deeply that I failed to suspect its presence. 
 That was its first appearance, and even then I failed to 
 recognize it as decay. 
 
 It started pleasantly enough; that is, it was pleasant 
 for others. We all dislike to be laughed at, and I still 
 blush when I think of the part I played that afternoon. 
 
 It began in Miss Davenant's office. We had been plan- 
 ning some new economy we cut expenses enormously 
 after the rout of Pingree and despite my efforts I found 
 my attention wandering from the straight line of business. 
 Finally I found the cause, a most magnificent ring on 
 Theresa's hand, a ring whose stone flashed little darts of 
 red and blue fire and in some subtle way distracted my 
 attention from the subject at hand. 
 
 "That's it," I said conclusively. 
 
 "That's what?" she asked, surprised at this sudden 
 side remark. 
 
 "Your ring," I explained. "Dazzled me. Would you 
 mind turning the stone inside?" 
 
 She stretched her hand out into the sunlight which 
 slanted down beside her desk and waved it to and fro 
 slowly; tiny shafts of crimson and beryl and sapphire 
 shimmered and danced across the scattered papers.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 197 
 
 "A beauty, isn't it?" she observed with a little laugh 
 in her voice. 
 
 "Not a very good investment," I observed sagely. "You 
 never get back what you pay for them. Now then " 
 
 As I closed the door behind me, she laughed; a full 
 throated laugh which was a rarity in our busy atmos- 
 phere. I listened, started back, and then thought better 
 of it. Probably a touch of hysteria, I thought; she had 
 been under a strain lately and had shown it in an un- 
 usual absent-mindedness. 
 
 I dismissed the matter from my mind, but it kept com- 
 ing back. It was most unusual for Miss Davenant to 
 
 make any display of jewelry; perhaps I saw a great 
 
 light. I stretched out my own hands and tried to recall 
 on which finger the ring had been; left hand, surely, and 
 the third finger. 
 
 "Poor investment !" I said to myself. "You poor idiot ! 
 No wonder she laughed." 
 
 I started out with some dim notion of apologizing, but 
 Stowell met me at the door with a worried look and some 
 minor difficulty and I turned back. 
 
 "I see," he said thoughtfully, after I had found his 
 trouble. "Sorry to have interrupted you. Go ahead ; I'll 
 stay here and get it down while it's fresh in my mind." 
 
 Where had I been going? Something Miss Davenant, 
 I remembered. 
 
 "We're going to lose Theresa, I'm afraid," I observed. 
 
 "So?" He went on scribbling, singularly unmoved. 
 
 "Got an engagement ring; just noticed it," I continued. 
 
 "Uh-huh. Known it for some time." 
 
 "It's going to be hard to replace her," I went on irri- 
 tably. "That's the worst of having a woman in a re- 
 sponsible position. Some weak-chinned counter-jumper 
 always interferes and takes them away." 
 
 "You know the man, then?" queried Stowell. 
 
 "No but these capable women always marry that
 
 198 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 type," I asserted dogmatically. "Protective instinct, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Stowell wrote on, mumbling to himself. Without warn- 
 ing he exploded in a sudden fit of coughing; he grew red 
 behind the ears and bolted out without bothering to shut 
 my door. I heard Theresa's office door open ; through 
 the ground glass partition I saw dim shadows and heard 
 the two of them talking. They laughed; she had prob- 
 ably told him of my absurd mistake. I had made myself 
 ridiculous enough, I thought, and bent over my work 
 again. 
 
 I looked up again to see them standing together in the 
 doorway. 
 
 "I owe you an apology " I began, but they paid no 
 
 attention. 
 
 "Are we alone?" Theresa asked, looking up at Dick. 
 
 Stowell looked around, shading his eyes with one hand. 
 
 "There's Coffin," he pointed out. 
 
 "Where? Oh, yes!" and she deliberately looked through 
 me. "But he's totally blind, you know. Come." 
 
 She tilted her head back, Dick bent over toward her 
 lips, lower lower 
 
 "You you -" I stammered weakly, and they jumped 
 apart in exaggerated surprise. 
 
 "Why, look!" exclaimed Theresa. "His eyes are 
 open!" 
 
 "Open?" laughed Dick. "You could hang your hat 
 on them!'* 
 
 "You you -" I said again. 
 
 They went off into a shameless burst of laughter, point- 
 ing at me and rocking to and fro each time I attempted 
 to speak. 
 
 "Let's see if Marks is blind too," said Dick finally. 
 They went off, still laughing at me and leaving me still 
 speechless. 
 
 They were married soon after this, a quiet wedding in 
 the apartment which Theresa shared with her invalid
 
 FLOOD TIDE 199 
 
 mother; a ceremony whose main incidents seem now to 
 be the wrangle I had with the caterer and the fact that 
 Dick misplaced his shirt studs and had to borrow mine. 
 I borrowed Worthington's, and he in turn annexed a set 
 which were the pride of Skip's heart. The cuff-links in 
 particular were magnificent, one solid blaze of red and 
 green glass, and Worthington missed the best parts of the 
 ceremony in his endeavors to keep them concealed. 
 
 Marks was there, for once obviously ill at ease and 
 manifesting a desire to get me off into a corner and dis- 
 cuss the details of the Corn Products deal which we were 
 considering at that time. I finally shunted him off on a 
 militantly strong-minded aunt of the bride's, a severely 
 dressed lady of uncertain years and very positive ideas 
 on the subject of the relations between employer and 
 employed. She cornered Marks behind the piano, and 
 from time to time I caught phrases about "our move- 
 ment" in tones which indicated that all other movements 
 were of dubious and inferior character indeed. Marks 
 gazed at me gloomily and reproachfully over the polished 
 top of the piano, and the next day he was unnecessarily 
 harsh to an inoffensive being in a white tie and square- 
 toed boots who invaded our office on behalf of some up- 
 lift stunt. 
 
 Worthington and I saw them off from the pier at Ho- 
 boken on the Wilhelm der Grosse; she sailed at midnight, 
 and as she swung slowly out from the circle of the dock- 
 lights, Theresa's voice floated down to us from the blurred 
 mass along the rail, high above us in the dimness. 
 
 "No rings, Mr. Coffin," she caUed. "They're a bad 
 investment." 
 
 "What did she mean?" asked Worthington curiously, 
 as we turned away. 
 
 "Damned if I know," I answered grumpily, and refused 
 to respond to any of his further advances. He was very 
 noisy and bothersome as we crossed on the ferry, gestic- 
 ulating in arcs of red and green cuff buttons toward the
 
 200 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 dim lights of the Kaiser Wilhelm and asserting enviously 
 that Stowell was a lucky dog. He was to be married 
 himself that fall, but a honeymoon in Europe was beyond 
 his reach. 
 
 I agreed with Worthington on one thing. 
 
 "It's going to be lonesome without Stowell," he said. 
 
 in 
 
 During that winter my father died. He had been in 
 poor health for a long time, although no hint of it had 
 crept into his letters, and had gradually given up the 
 management of his store to Joe Grigsby. 
 
 My memories of the funeral are very confused. I re- 
 member Captain Waldron, a bit more stooped and aged ; 
 I recall the unfamiliar whisper and rustle which filled the 
 old house; clearest of all comes the picture of the proces- 
 sion through the snow-strewn streets to the old burying 
 ground, the burying ground which had more tombstones 
 than graves, for many of the monuments were erected to 
 those lost at sea. 
 
 Last of all I remember the next morning at the store 
 with Captain Waldron and Grigsby. Joe was worried, 
 and yet reluctant to speak of business at such a time. 
 I broached the subject myself and made arrangements 
 for him to continue as manager. Some sentimental con- 
 sideration prevented me from selling outright. 
 
 "And the house, Johnny?" queried Captain Waldron 
 from behind the stove. 
 
 "I don't know, sir," I said slowly. "What would you 
 advise?" 
 
 "Keep it." 
 
 "I may never come back here to live." 
 
 "Been in the family a long time," he reminded me. 
 
 "Yes, it has." 
 
 I thought a moment. 
 
 "I'll leave it in your hands, sir," I concluded. "Keep
 
 FLOOD TIDE 201 
 
 it in repair and send me the bills. Board up the windows, 
 if you wish. Or better still, rent it to some widow or old 
 maid ; there must be some of them about town. Get 
 enough out of it to pay the taxes and other expenses. 
 No more. I don't need the money and they may. Will 
 you?" 
 
 "Well done," he commented, "I'll see to it." 
 He thoughtfully considered the rust spotted stove; 
 then nodded. 
 
 "He'd like it that way, I know," he said. 
 
 Stowell's honeymoon lengthened out to a six months' 
 absence, a period punctuated by infrequent post cards 
 from queer corners of Europe and still more infrequent 
 letters. Finally he and Theresa returned and set about 
 the furnishing of an apartment in the upper eighties,, 
 just back from Riverside Drive. Dick was strangely re- 
 luctant to take up the thread of business again ; he came 
 in once or twice, criticized our work, yawned over his 
 desk and then vanished for another period. I objected. 
 We needed him. 
 
 "One thing at a time," he protested. "I'm over my 
 ears in work as it is. Solemn business, this starting a 
 home. See here, what I've got to do to-day." 
 
 He pulled out a long list and began to read ; decorator, 
 a curio dealer on Third Avenue to be seen about some 
 andirons, rugs, meet Theresa for lunch at 12.30, Customs 
 House "Fuss over some Grand Rapids furniture," he 
 commented maid, curtains, con. c. b. 
 
 "Now what the devil is 'con. c. b.'?" he worried. 
 
 I led him quietly outside and closed the door. 
 
 Finally Marks and I were invited to inspect the finished 
 work. 
 
 "You have done well," said Marks, after dinner that
 
 202 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 night. "With such direction, of course, failure was im- 
 possible." 
 
 He bowed gravely to Theresa and she bobbed him a 
 quaint little curtsy in return. 
 
 "System does wonders, doesn't it?" she remarked. 
 
 "And now I suppose you'll be coming back to the of- 
 fice, Stowell," Marks said after a pause. "We've been sav- 
 ing part of this matter of the Canneries for you and 
 then there's the new office to be considered." 
 
 "I know," agreed Dick. "Playtime's over; nothing left 
 but the cold gray respectability of married life. But it's 
 been fun." 
 
 "All of that," said Theresa. "You've no idea the things 
 we've seen! Little English villages 
 
 "Like Whitehaven, only slower," commented Dick. 
 
 " With thatched roofs and funny chimney-pots 
 
 " Mud floors, most likely." 
 
 "He's dreadfully unromantic," complained Theresa. 
 
 "But still, it will seem dull at the office, I suppose," I 
 ventured. 
 
 There was a little silence. 
 
 "The office !" said Theresa, with a little sigh. "You're 
 quite determined to talk business, I see. I refuse to listen. 
 I'm only a poor, weak woman and I don't understand 
 these things." 
 
 Despite our protests she marched out. 
 
 "I don't know," said Stowell, gazing after her. "It will 
 be hard to settle down again, after being away so long. 
 Hard work. I hate to think of it." 
 
 He sighed contemplatively, and became engrossed in 
 the end of his cigar. 
 
 "So I don't think that I'll come back," he added quietly. 
 
 I looked at Marks. 
 
 "I told you," he nodded. 
 
 "But why, Dick?" I asked. "You aspire to be one of 
 the idle rich? or is it some new line of business?"
 
 FLOOD TIDE 203 
 
 "The second." 
 
 "Something new?" 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "I suppose you'd class it roughly as Uplifting the Pee- 
 pul welfare work," he answered, "although really " 
 
 "You mean poking around in tenements and blackmail- 
 ing respectable people to support pet charities?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Not that although I maintain that it's all right in 
 its own way, mind you. I'm not interested in charities 
 save in a purely academic manner which is a polite way 
 of saying that I don't care a damn. I shall not inter- 
 fere with Mrs. Mulcahy when she feeds the baby Sky 
 Blue Milk instead of Peptonized Lacteal Tablets. Neither 
 do I care whether Tony Guardanolupo buys white wine 
 or red steak with his princely stipend." 
 
 "That narrows it down somewhat," I observed. "You 
 admit that you're going tilting at windmills and you've 
 eliminated one class. Suppose you point out the specific 
 object of your wrath." 
 
 "The biggest one of all," he returned cheerfully. "But 
 I'm not the only Quixote in the field." 
 
 "Allardyce, Watson and Dalrymple, to name some of 
 the others," volunteered Marks from the depths of his 
 chair. "They've touched me for funds," he added, in 
 response to Dick's questioning glance. 
 
 Dick raised his eyebrows. 
 
 "They got them," Marks admitted. 
 
 "Good !" commented Dick. "I'm glad that you approve 
 of it." 
 
 "My approval is purely academic," said Marks dryly. 
 
 "You know more than I thought you did, Marks." 
 
 "Thanks," said Marks dryly. "Others have told me 
 that." 
 
 I listened sulkily, without the least idea what they were 
 talking about.
 
 204 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "It's just this," said Dick, taking pity on my igno- 
 rance. "There are a few men in this village who have a 
 suspicion that public business isn't conducted exactly as 
 it should be. I'm one of them; besides myself there's 
 Allardyce of Columbia, Dalrymple, the railroad man I 
 think you've heard of him Ellms, you neglected to men- 
 tion him, Marks " 
 
 "Don't know him," grunted Marks. 
 
 "About a dozen of us in all. I'm only a minor mem- 
 ber; it's my opinion that they came to me after they'd 
 tried every one else. But I'm with them. We're of the 
 firm and unalterable opinion that there's no reason under 
 the sun why public business should be conducted less effi- 
 ciently and less honestly than private business. In sup- 
 port of this contention we intend to see whether or not we 
 can put this city on a firm and sane governmental basis. 
 I won't say that we will but we'll try. That is our wind- 
 mill, the windmill of municipal waste. There's only one 
 larger one the problem of waste in national government 
 and that's too large for us. Later perhaps. We'll 
 have to find out how big this city problem is, first." 
 
 "Business administration," I commented. "Red fire 
 statistics cart-tail oratory on the East Side with an 
 obligate of dead cats and after election a statement that 
 'we will renew the fight next year.' And by next year 
 you'll have forgotten about it." 
 
 Dick laughed and turned to Marks. "See where your 
 money is going," he said. "Do you want it back?" 
 
 "Not yet," answered Marks. "Go on." 
 
 "You have the wrong idea, Coffin," continued Dick. 
 "We shall run no candidate for mayor nor for council- 
 man nor for fence viewer. This is an affair of government, 
 not politics. Two entirely distinct matters. Don't you 
 comprehend that government is a matter of ideas, not of 
 men? We have nothing against any party or any man; 
 our objection is to the fact that the administration of
 
 FLOOD TIDE 205 
 
 public affairs is still in the Dark Ages. You can't deny 
 it. Duplication of work, departments which overlap and 
 interfere, waste, incompetence, things going undone be- 
 cause no one knows how to do them you'll find the city 
 rotten with all these. That's what we're gunning for, 
 the system and not the man. You think our idea is to 
 get into City Hall; you're wrong. We want to help the 
 men who are already there. And we can do that best by 
 substituting or trying to substitute business methods 
 for archaic survivals of the day when Broadway was lined 
 with shade trees and the Bowery was respectable. That's 
 all." 
 
 "And your method?" asked Marks from the shadows. 
 
 "That's undecided as yet," admitted Dick, "but roughly 
 I should say that there will be four steps. First, to get 
 a general view of the problem. Second, to get inside and 
 get information. Third, to formulate and recommend 
 changes, and last, to see that our recommendations go 
 through and are tried out. That will be the start ; later 
 all four steps will go on at once. Twenty years ago even 
 the first would have been impossible; to-day well, we 
 have hopes of being heard." 
 
 "Hopes," emphasized Marks. 
 
 "I have my own fears," acknowledged Dick. "But that's 
 still in the future. The whole thing simmers down to 
 just this; we have done things big and now we must do 
 things well. In The Stores we've done both, because we 
 started from the very bottom; in government we've had 
 growth without order. We have no remedy which is to 
 solve all our difficulties; we merely want to refine exist- 
 ing material. 'Welfare Work' yes; but of a pretty 
 high order I think." 
 
 "Your general plan " 
 
 "Is just this," interrupted Dick. "How much do these 
 cost you at the office?" 
 
 He held up a bundle of common pencils.
 
 206 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Seven cents, I think," answered Marks doubtfully. 
 
 "I paid ten for these," commented Dick, "at a station- 
 ery store." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And they cost the city eighteen." 
 
 Marks turned the bundle over in his fingers. 
 
 "I see," he said thoughtfully. 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I've heard much the same thing in Park Row during 
 the lunch hour," I admitted. "But now it seems more 
 convincing. It will take a long time, Dick." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "And how much do you know about it?" 
 
 Theresa came into the room again; her protested hor- 
 ror of business had been only a pretext. 
 
 "Only what we could learn in six months," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 "A nice honeymoon I had," she said indignantly. 
 "Dragging around through municipal workshops and 
 prisons and dock-yards and talking with fat and unin- 
 teresting officials." 
 
 "Instead of looking at scenery and the moon and 
 ouch !" 
 
 "No tale-telling," she warned. 
 
 "But we can't spare you now," I objected. 
 
 "I think you can. How about it, Marks?" 
 
 "We'll have to stumble along as best we can," answered 
 Marks. "You seem quite determined. Although if you 
 ever need a job " 
 
 Dick laughed. "If I ever go broke I'm going to start 
 a pencil factory, believe me. There's money in it." 
 
 They seemed to take it all quite cheerfully. 
 
 "Cheer up," said Dick, "this isn't the end of the world, 
 you know." 
 
 I knew; but he had started me thinking, and my 
 thoughts were not pleasant ones.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 207 
 
 I shall remember that walk down town as long as I live. 
 I declined Marks' offer of a lift in his car and struck out 
 alone. I wanted to think. 
 
 I remember turning toward Riverside Drive first, be- 
 cause Marks went the other way. For a while I gazed out 
 over the river, across to the black mass of the Palisades, 
 tormented by a thousand fruitless questions. I recall two 
 cruisers at anchor upstream, two dim shadows against the 
 dull shimmer of the stream, picked out here and there with 
 yellow lines of dotted light. In the yards below me a 
 switching engine crept about, coughing apologetically 
 but insistently, in search of some car which had fallen 
 into bad company. I searched my mind for answers to 
 the questions which perplexed me. I failed to find them, 
 and in sheer restlessness turned away from the river and 
 started south. 
 
 Some sort of an affair was going on in one of the 
 residences opposite; awning out to the curb, a hum of 
 music from within, a string of motors down a side street, 
 all the usual external evidences that some one was pass- 
 ing through a social crisis. Dick and I had wandered 
 up here one Sunday during the early days of The Stores 
 and amused ourselves by picking out the places we would 
 buy some day. A few more years at the present rate and 
 even this would be within my reach. Not that I wanted 
 it or ever had wanted it, but I could if I wished. 
 
 I found no satisfaction in the thought. I found myself 
 in the position of a man who has spent his life in hewing 
 and carving a statue and then finds that he can neither 
 sell it, eat it, nor put it to any conceivable use. 
 
 The joy of creation? A poor substitute for other 
 things, and a source of satisfaction which diminished as 
 the work went on. I had enough to eat, enough to wear, 
 a roof over my head and the joy of creation. The poor- 
 est laborer had as much, and more. Then why go on
 
 208 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 creating? The pleasure of transmuting ideas into reali- 
 ties had left me; what incentive was left? Not money; 
 I had never found pleasure in mere possession. Then 
 why go on? Why? For the first time in years I put 
 that question to myself; it recurred in my mind like a 
 refrain as I went along. 
 
 I crossed over, struck across Amsterdam and Columbus 
 Avenues, and bore south along the Park. To the left, 
 now hidden behind the rough knolls and now revealing 
 themselves in flashes between the trees, I remember the 
 glitter and spin of hurrying lights on Fifth Avenue; be- 
 hind me there hung a shadow, a shadow in a greasy hat 
 and broken shoes, a shadow with a furtive air and a pat- 
 ter of misfortune. 
 
 "Go to hell!" I growled over my shoulder. 
 
 It hung back and hesitated. Under a sudden impulse 
 I turned and beckoned. 
 
 "Here," I ordered, and emptied my change pocket into 
 the battered hat; part of it trickled through and the 
 wreck grunted and wheezed after the scattered coins. I 
 found a bill wadded in the corner of one pocket and 
 flicked it down toward the groping hands. 
 
 "Now, damn you, you've got to walk," I thought. 
 
 I was childishly angry with myself; I had a blind and 
 unreasoning impulse to hurt my body, to make myself 
 suffer. 
 
 I glanced back ; the battered hat had vanished into the 
 shadows whence it came. We were both of one stamp, I 
 thought; both members of the Itinerant Brotherhood. 
 All my life I had been a tramp, an intellectual tramp, 
 forever seeking new things, exhausting their possibilities, 
 and passing on. There had been a satisfaction in that, 
 at one time; but now only the habit remained. I still 
 wove my dreams but there was no delight in the smooth- 
 ness of the product; the intricate pattern and the sheen 
 of mixed colors held no more beauty for me. And to go 
 on weaving endlessly Why?
 
 FLOOD TIDE 209 
 
 I left Columbus Circle behind me and turned into 
 Broadway; I elbowed my way through a crowd craning 
 their necks at a great, lumbering car drawn alongside 
 the curb. I thought of Marks, who had early grown wise 
 in horse-power and speed. Power. That was his aim 
 and with that he was satisfied. It was a part of his na- 
 ture, this ever-narrowing acquisition of money and power. 
 But was he narrow? He had known of StowelPs plans, 
 while I had not. He had other interests beside business ; 
 so had Stowell. Had I? 
 
 I thought I had. The new office, our extension, this 
 deal of the Canneries, all our plans of future conquests 
 I stopped there. 
 
 Lump them all under one head business and what 
 had I outside? 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 I had fallen behind the others; Marks, Stowell, even 
 Worthington had outdistanced me. They had other inter- 
 ests in life; I had nothing but work. A moment before 
 I had thought contemptuously of Marks and his single- 
 minded lust for power; now I thought contemptuously 
 of myself. I lacked even that object. 
 
 Times Square, with its blaze of lights, the crush of the- 
 ater goers, and the glittering double vista down Seventh 
 Avenue and Broadway. "Longacre Square," old Jenkins 
 had called it, and had given me a long and wandering 
 account of it in the late seventies. I had been bored, 
 and had yawned in his face. I wondered now if he had 
 noticed it. Probably he had, but he was always pathet- 
 ically glad of the chance to talk to some one. Would I 
 be like that, twenty years from now? No interests but 
 business and old memories? 
 
 After Herald Square my memories begin to blur. I 
 was tired, utterly and absolutely leg weary. I was soft 
 in body and soul and took a grim pleasure in torturing 
 both. I must have started down Sixth Avenue and then 
 swung over into Seventh, for I recall being annoyed
 
 210 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 through my fatigue at the rumble of trains overhead and 
 then the cessation of that annoyance. And still the 
 question why, in God's name, why? It kept beating away 
 in the back of my head and I still found no answer. 
 
 "Hello, kid." 
 
 That and a whiff of pungent perfume swirled back to 
 me over the shoulder of a passing prostitute. I kept 
 count of them as I went along; there were seven of these 
 invitations, seven kinds of perfume, seven different ac- 
 cents. These invitations had never troubled me before, 
 although they were common enough. I found myself 
 hesitating; then I remembered that I had left my money 
 with the battered hat. I went on. I realized that that 
 way was not a solution, but the purchase of temporary 
 forgetfulness. 
 
 I got home, finally; I remember finding myself in a 
 deserted maze of streets and stopping to listen for the 
 distant rumble of the Elevated. 
 
 Out of my fatigue there came a curious clarity of mind. 
 I must find some way out of this narrow way of living. 
 I had become single-minded. I had stuck in one track 
 too long. Why? Because I lacked the energy to get out 
 of the rut. With all my looking ahead I had never con- 
 sidered my personal future; my only thoughts had been 
 for the future of The Stores. I reviewed the past year 
 and remembered day after day when I had found work im- 
 possible, whole weeks during which I had gone stale. I 
 found the reason now. 
 
 And the solution? To get out; to find some other in- 
 terest save the unsatisfactory one of building for the 
 sake of building. 
 
 Worthington came in soon after I arrived. He was 
 to be married the week following; perhaps this question- 
 ing of mine was due in part to the realization that one 
 by one my friends were dropping out of my life. 
 
 "What does a man do when he finds himself with only 
 one interest in life?" I asked him as he prepared for bed.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 211 
 
 "Marries her," he answered readily. 
 
 "But seriously?" 
 
 "Oh, any number of things collect china, go crazy 
 over fishing or golf, buy a farm and raise hens, carve the 
 Lord's prayer on the head of a pin make a fool of him- 
 self one way or another. What's the matter beginning 
 to feel the collar?" 
 
 From that night dates my loss of interest in The Stores. 
 It was a deliberate loss of interest; I kept on at the old 
 pace for a time, but I did it in the full knowledge that 
 this work was no longer the chief end of existence. Sto- 
 well, I think, sensed my loss of interest, for he tried to 
 interest me in his work, urging me to give him at least 
 part of my time. He failed. I was not interested in 
 governmental reform. The constructive part of it was 
 good, I knew, but it was work in line with my own work 
 at The Stores. I wanted, above all, to get away from 
 that. 
 
 But for a time I worked harder than before. That was 
 the winter of the panic 1907. We were just recovering 
 from our anti-Pingree campaign, completely recovered, in 
 fact, but with our retrenchment policies still in force. 
 That alone saved us ; had we been caught a year before or 
 a year later we must surely have been driven ashore. 
 As it was, we reefed sail a bit and carried through. We 
 even found chances to expand. Through some obscure 
 deal Marks got control of Crawford and Ewing, a small 
 wholesale house up town. We needed another warehouse 
 in that section, and Marks snapped at the opportunity. 
 
 This was during the worst of the storm. I remember 
 Marks coming into my office we were still at the ware- 
 house inclined to be exultant and still somewhat doubt- 
 ful about my reception of the news. He found me un- 
 accountably unresponsive, I have no doubt.
 
 212 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 The headline "Broker Suicide?" in the early evening 
 edition had caught my eye. Why I noticed it I can't 
 say; such headlines were common enough then. Under 
 the headline I caught the name Learoyd "Philip Lea- 
 royd, 34, of Cardigan and Learoyd . . . suspicious cir- 
 cumstances . . . heart failure." And below that the 
 line: 
 
 "The deceased leaves a wife who has been notified." 
 
 That night I went home with Marks, out to his place 
 in the Connecticut hills. 
 
 "Just a little holiday," he had urged. "Guess we've 
 earned it." 
 
 We swung down town first to have a glance at the new 
 building which was to be our future home, craned our 
 necks upward at the dusky web of red and black girders, 
 gaunt against the sky, and then headed north up Fifth 
 Avenue. We crossed the bridge, threaded our way 
 through the Bronx and then straightened out for the open 
 country. The city fell away behind us, darkness came 
 on and two wavering twin lances of light sprang out be- 
 fore us, charging and challenging the phantoms of dark- 
 ness. We went on, through silent fields and a dwindling 
 necklace of towns and villages, following the looping of 
 the gray road over the hills and all to a streaming ac- 
 companiment of talk from Marks. He insisted on point- 
 ing out the mistakes of Crawford. 
 
 He annoyed me immensely. 
 
 " leaves a wife " No children, evidently. 
 
 I mentally corrected the reporter's phraseology. "A 
 widow." 
 
 I wondered 
 
 vn 
 
 All that winter I looked about for a way out of my 
 rut, tried various ways, and found them unsatisfactory. 
 And then, one afternoon in early spring, a man from
 
 FLOOD TIDE 213 
 
 Spain tapped me on the shoulder and turned my feet into 
 the path I sought. I have never seen him, but I have 
 seen his work. He was Sorolla. 
 
 How long I sat before that great picture of his in the 
 Metropolitan Museum I have no idea hours it must have 
 been, for it was early afternoon when I entered and dusk 
 when I came down the steps. How I came to be there also 
 escapes me; perhaps in my beating back through the 
 past I had raised some faint and shadowy memory of 
 Luigi and the old museum in Copley Square. I only know 
 that I came there faintly restless, still on my quest for 
 the way out, and went away with the way found. I had 
 no doubts of that. 
 
 I appreciate now the truth of that old, old excuse 
 for faulty description and interpretation, the statement 
 that, after all, words are but poor and colorless affairs. 
 It is by no means a novel excuse and I make it with a 
 great deal of hesitation. I have tried before this to de- 
 scribe that canvas and failed. Sorolla has caught some- 
 thing and fixed it on canvas ; I cannot transmute it into 
 type. As well bombard the stars with adjectives; they 
 still fail to come nearer earth. 
 
 There is sunlight on that sheet of woven cloth, caught 
 and fixed there forever; the clean, sharp afternoon sun 
 on the backs of the lurching, patient oxen, on the belly of 
 the sail, on the half-turned, stubby chin of the man who 
 leans and strains against the weight of the chain; such 
 sunlight as you get at Whitehaven on rare fall days. 
 And, beyond that, the clean, free stretch of the open 
 sea. That was what held me; I was brought face to face 
 with the best and cleanest memories of my boyhood. An- 
 other sea-picture would have left me unmoved; the surge 
 and swing of the open sea beyond sight of land would have 
 left me apathetic and untouched. This was something 
 I knew. 
 
 This, I realized suddenly, is what you want. 
 
 I found myself reading things into the canvas as I sat
 
 214 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 there; I imagined the beach, strewn with long strands of 
 kelp, with the sea welling up in the prints of the oxens' 
 feet; behind that there must be cliffs, cliffs of amber and 
 yellow with deep blue shadows in the clefts. And in the 
 break, where the stream wrangles and frets its way down 
 between the rocks, are nets drying in the sun and white 
 walled cabins with rocks on the roofs against the winter 
 storms. Perhaps there was even a pile of lobster pots. 
 
 It was all so wonderfully clear to me now ; this, and this 
 alone was what I wanted; the sea, the good, green, sunlit 
 mother of all things. It was in my blood, and I had ig- 
 nored it too long. I would go back. 
 
 It was raining when I came down the long steps, a light 
 drizzle that smoothed the pavement to a dusky and shin- 
 ing mirror. I turned off through the Park and cut across 
 toward the subway. I rode down to the Battery that 
 night. The rain came steadily here, a heavy spindrift 
 from the lower bay and from beyond that the open sea. 
 With it came the sharp tang of the great salt reaches ; 
 like Stowell's jungle scent, it gets into your blood and 
 sooner or later draws you back to forgotten things. 
 
 I stood facing the driving mist; from the left hand 
 a long double row of lights crept out, gathered speed, be- 
 came foreshortened, and faded to a dim blur of yellow in 
 the darkness. The Staten Island ferry, I knew; and yet 
 for a moment I experienced a revival of my old childish 
 dreams of romance. I used to watch the ships sail out 
 of Whitehaven and wonder how long it would be before 
 I followed them. 
 
 Now I knew that I would follow soon. 
 
 I gravely gestured in farewell to these adventurers 
 on the high seas, and then, smiling at my own foolishness, 
 turned homeward.
 
 BOOK THE THIRD
 
 CHAPTER THE FIRST 
 
 ONE of the discoveries which we all make as we look 
 back over our lives is that they fall into regular periods. 
 Certain minor events stand out and grow as they recede 
 in the distance; from the distance we look back and see 
 that what we passed as a minor pinnacle was really the 
 culminating peak of a range, dividing one country from 
 another. It is so in my case. I passed one divide when 
 I went to Hatherly's ; I see now that I passed another 
 with my discovery of Sorolla. 
 
 But for a time after passing this second divide I wan- 
 dered among a strange jumble of minor ranges and val- 
 leys. There was no direct transition from one sphere to 
 another, as there was from college to Hatherly's. Events 
 overlap and interweave; I seem to have left the old life 
 and still not yet fully entered upon the new. Some of the 
 events of the time immediately following this preliminary 
 breaking away I have already told; many of the greater 
 parts of our business expansion belong to this interval 
 between periods how we spread out and added to the sec- 
 ond web and grew ever greater. 
 
 In the sense of time this third section really begins 
 with the summer of that year. I bought the Ethelreda 
 J. Everhard Lewis found her for me at Evan's yards over 
 the river renamed her the Shadow II in memory of the 
 old Shadow and deliberately started to break away from 
 The Stores and everything which had been my life for 
 the past ten years. I found Kavenaugh at Evan's yards, 
 too, a silent little Irishman with a soft brogue which was 
 almost Sicilian in its liquid vowels and swift rushes from 
 217
 
 218 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 vowel to vowel. During that summer and indeed until we 
 built the Shadow III Kavenaugh and I shared the slim 
 forty feet of the Shadow II between us. He was cook, 
 engineer and nautical dry-nurse; I came second in impor- 
 tance as owner and deck hand. Kavenaugh was a good 
 pal; I foresee that his ruddy cheeked, taciturn little fig- 
 ure will run through this third book as he does through 
 all my best memories of this time. He was with Cad- 
 berry and myself on our wild-goose chase; after that he 
 brought the Shadow III down from Bath and lingered 
 about till the end always in the background but always 
 there. 
 
 So I started my search for the Golden Fleece of Con- 
 tent, a timid Jason who found increasing satisfaction in 
 loafing up and down the coast during the summers and 
 ever diminishing pleasure in planning and building great 
 things during the winters. At first I found excuses for 
 myself; I was tired, gone stale; my mind was exhausted 
 by many harvests and needed a rest to recover its fertil- 
 ity. It never did recover, I may as well admit. I became 
 an absentee, a silent partner, a dependent upon Marks 
 whatever you wish to call me. 
 
 Somewhere I had passed another shadowy divide. I 
 lost ambition, deliberately threw it away. This third 
 section of my story deals with petty ambitions^ drifting 
 and vagrant aims. From a futurist I became a hand-to- 
 mouth dweller in the present. 
 
 At the start I stole away from business whenever I 
 could, but later I became more brazen. I came back when 
 I could, got my work out of the way as soon as possible 
 and fled. It was a slow subservience of one interest to 
 another. I met a vast number of pleasant people, joined 
 clubs, acquired a quasi-nautical vocabulary and developed 
 a decided distaste for work. I could see no sense in work- 
 ing for the sake of acquiring more money and power in 
 order to work harder; that was Marks' way, not mine. 
 I considered The Stores a completed whole; Marks saw
 
 FLOOD TIDE 219 
 
 it as a base on which to construct further structures. 
 Municipal meddling claimed Stowell entirely and he 
 dropped out, selling his fourth interest. Every fall I came 
 back to the offices with greater reluctance. I had no in- 
 centive in life save self-indulgence, and that rarely leads 
 to creative work. 
 
 This was one side of my life. As my interest in this 
 aimless and distasteful work waned, so my love for the 
 other phase of my existence grew. There were no disil- 
 lusionments when I came back to the sea ; I found some- 
 thing finer than I had imagined. 
 
 During those summers Kavenaugh and I became famil- 
 iar figures along the coast ; from Monomoy south to Cape 
 Henry there was scarcely a bay or inlet into which the 
 Shadow had not poked her long gray bow. We spent 
 days and weeks in out-of-the-way places. Kavenaugh 
 yarned with the natives ; I merely vegetated. Later I 
 revived my long slumbering interest in painting, simply 
 sketching at first and then starting numberless canvases 
 and finishing some of them. . . . I'm no judge of that. I've 
 turned out stuff since that satisfies others, but I've yet to 
 satisfy myself. My marines are fair; no more. It's 
 not that I started too late in life, but that I miss some 
 elusive quality about the sea, the same distant call that 
 old Caspar, far back in Whitehaven days, felt but failed 
 to reduce to expression. Sometimes I've come within 
 hailing distance of it, but it still eludes me and probably 
 always will. Once I nearly touched it. ... 
 
 Usually we went alone, just Kavenaugh and I, drifting 
 as the spirit moved us. We loafed gorgeously; once in 
 a while Worthington came across country to some somno- 
 lent little port and took the heavier work of loafing off 
 our hands. He was more or less of a bore with his quo- 
 tations and colossal ineptitude for labor, but I found it 
 good to have some one beside Kavenaugh to talk to occa- 
 sionally. 
 
 I remember many things of these three years and they
 
 220 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 are all pleasant memories. I remember long hours of 
 drowsing in the sun, sprawled lazily content on the for- 
 ward deck, sounds of Kavenaugh hammering something 
 below; I remember the sweeping northeasters which held 
 us storm bound for days in remote places ; and too, I 
 recall the long summer nights under the stars, with Kave- 
 naugh hunched over a yellow-back thriller in the cabin 
 below I read them myself when he had thumbed and 
 spelled them over and the dim velvety hush as I consid- 
 ered many things dreamily and worried over never a one 
 of them. Sometimes Kavenaugh would be moved to an 
 unwonted fit of garrulity and for hours would conduct 
 a broken monologue about things he had seen and heard. 
 I remember sunrises far at sea and in harbor, the faint 
 blue lines of distant shores half seen and half hidden in 
 the slow rise of the thin morning mists; forgotten frag- 
 ments of verse came back to me, de Lamartine and Gau- 
 tier and some of the English poets "far-folded mists 
 and gleaming halls of morn" is one which sticks in my 
 memory. Perhaps Worthington quoted this. I have al- 
 ways thought that he memorized verse during the winters 
 and then reeled it off with a fine air of nonchalance for 
 my benefit. I remember one fragment which he quoted: 
 
 "With only the shadows to tett the time, 
 And the swing of the sea to swell the rhyme 
 To the beat of the bell-buoys' mellow chime " 
 
 He trailed off into silence and lazily swayed to and 
 fro as we swung along. 
 
 "More Swinburne?" I questioned. 
 
 "My own," he admitted with becoming modesty. 
 
 "Can't help it" he added in answer to my grunt. "It's 
 my relaxation, just as yours is lying around in filthy duck 
 pants and a three days' beard." 
 
 I twitched the wheel ever so slightly, the Shadow 
 swooped her nose into an oncoming wave, and a long,
 
 FLOOD TIDE 221 
 
 thin, diamond-hung arm reached up and smote Worthing- 
 ton between the shoulder blades. He shivered and splut- 
 tered: 
 
 " the turquoise waves 
 
 Spun spots of silver on the deck, 
 And still they sailed." 
 
 This was from "Songs of the Southland" and he re- 
 garded me dubiously as I flung his own verse at him. 
 Then he crawled down into the safe shelter of the cock 
 pit and shifted the talk to life insurance rates and dry 
 shirts. 
 
 Once it was the last of these three years Kavenaugh 
 and I started south in March. We took the inside route 
 as far as we could, across cold and cheerless New Jersey 
 in a perpetual drizzle of mist, and thence south by canal, 
 Chesapeake Bay and the sounds to beyond Hatteras. We 
 made a run of it from there and by fools' luck arrived 
 at the Bahamas a day ahead of a gale from the southeast. 
 That year we loitered slowly northward, and not until 
 the hills about Buzzards Bay had changed from green 
 to gold under the transmutors wand did we begin to think 
 of laying the Shadow II up for the winter. 
 
 This was the last and greatest voyage of the Shadow 
 II; it whetted my taste for this sea-gypsying and that 
 winter I built the Shadow III. 
 
 Marks grew amazingly in ambition during these first 
 years after the panic of 1907. From a timid and dis- 
 couraged failure, as I had found him at Brown Brothers, 
 he became an ambitious and confident success. A latent 
 visionary element became evident in him; with the suc- 
 cessful passage of limitations he became contemptuous of 
 obstacles, overlooked them, saw through and beyond them 
 to limitless fields of expansion. What dreams he dreamed
 
 222 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 in secret I have no means of knowing. But I do know 
 that every queer fish that came to our nets inspired him 
 to great imaginings. And we had everything offered us, 
 from ostrich farms to perpetual motion solutions. 
 
 I was at once a help and an irritation to Marks. A 
 help, because I clipped his wings, made myself the bal- 
 ance wheel of his wild one-sided imagination. An irrita- 
 tion, because I refused to take a serious interest in his 
 vaguely magnificent plans for the future of The Stores. 
 At first he had taken my comings and goings with an air 
 of toleration ; I would soon tire of that, he thought, and 
 then matters would resume their old routine. He found 
 a certain satisfaction in trying his own hand at plan- 
 ning, I imagine; my absences really provided a vacation 
 for him also. He assumed an I-told-you-so air when I 
 sold the Shadow II, an air which vanished abruptly when 
 I planned the Shadow III. Further madness ! During 
 the winter he exhausted all forms of appeal, trying to per- 
 suade me to return and make The Stores again my sole 
 interest in life. 
 
 He discovered that it irritated me to have my absences 
 referred to as "going fishing." By insinuation he classed 
 me with the man who rows a dory seven miles for three 
 cunners, two dogfish and a sunburnt neck. I dislike fish- 
 ing and always have; yet Marks persisted in assuming 
 that this was my diversion. He accumulated a vast store 
 of fishing stories and dragged them into his conversa- 
 tion whenever possible. 
 
 There was no actual break between us. Marks must 
 have appreciated that my romantic type of mind had 
 seized on something and was bound to extract the last 
 drop of possible enjoyment from it before abandoning 
 it. I, for my part, realized that Marks' efforts at per- 
 suasion had their origin in his single-minded interest in 
 our creation. We failed to differ seriously only because 
 I refused to argue my side of the question. I had no argu- 
 ments to make save my own inclination.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 223 
 
 This fencing went on for two years and more, with 
 the advantage resting with neither of us. With the start 
 of the second year of the Shadow III I became vaguely 
 eloquent regarding voyages which I contemplated ; Fayal, 
 perhaps, and then the Mediterranean ports, Monaco, 
 Barcelona, all the names which had once appealed to me. 
 Marks became more specific in his allusions to "going fish- 
 ing," an accentuation rather than a change in our rela- 
 tionship. 
 
 We came to an agreement, finally, out at Marks' place. 
 I know now that he must have brought me out there for 
 the sole purpose of thrashing the matter out, although 
 ostensibly I was brought out to view a new wing which he 
 added to the main structure. He was forever building 
 additions of one sort or another; the final result re- 
 sembled nothing so much as a sanitarium. We inspected 
 the wing and then sat on the porch, looking out over the 
 valley in the soft June night. Mrs. Marks sat with us 
 for a while, her pleasant, flowing, unpunctuated voice 
 filling the silences in our talk. Finally she left us. 
 
 I imagine that an unusually tempting array of possibil- 
 ities had been paraded before us that day, for I remember 
 Marks being querulously discontented as I pointed out 
 weak places in schemes which he considered worth trying. 
 
 "Well," he concluded, "perhaps it's a good thing we 
 can't run wild, grabbing everything in sight. That'd be 
 easy, just taking things and making them over. We've 
 got something bigger than that." 
 
 "Yes?" I encouraged. 
 
 "N'York isn't the only city," he said with a queer touch 
 of hesitation in his voice. "There's something to think 
 about, Coffin." 
 
 I came out of my day-dream with a jerk. "You mean?" 
 
 "Other cities with the same possibilities," he added 
 with an expansive wave of the remnant of his cigar. I see 
 now that he must have been sounding me, but at the time 
 I thought it merely the result of some passing fancy.
 
 224 . FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Other cities, of course . . . And with possibilities in 
 our line, too," I agreed. "But that's for some one else. 
 We've trouble in handling what we've bitten off here." 
 
 He muttered something about limitations. 
 
 "We're human, if that's what you mean," I concluded. 
 
 He seemed on the point of explaining, hesitated, and 
 then gave it up" . I was disappointed at his easy surrender ; 
 his remark about "other cities" troubled me vaguely. I 
 tried to draw him out, but he refused to commit himself. 
 When he spoke again he had shifted to another subject 
 entirely. 
 
 "You don't mean that," he said abruptly, as though he 
 had finally convinced himself. 
 
 "Mean what?" 
 
 "About these long trips of yours. Norway or Austra- 
 lia or wherever it was. That would mean months of ab- 
 sence. You can't, you know." 
 
 "I don't know." I had my own unadmitted doubts. 
 
 "You got to stop somewhere," he persisted. "What's 
 going to become of The Stores?" 
 
 "They seem to get along all right," I said shortly. 
 
 "Seem to, but they don't. And you know it. ... It 
 isn't right," he said aggrievedly. 
 
 "I'm sick of The Stores, Marks," I said after a time. 
 "I'll sell out if you wish." 
 
 "No," he said quickly. "I've thought of that. I don't 
 want you to. Even if you only come in one day a month 
 it will be better than nothing at all. Don't think of 
 that." 
 
 "What then?" I asked, secretly relieved that he had 
 seen the matter in this light. 
 
 "We've got to settle it somehow," he went on. "You 
 can't convince me and I can't convince you. We got to 
 compromise." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 "I've thought it out," he stated. "Stay away as long 
 as you want, but stay within call. There are times when
 
 FLOOD TIDE 225 
 
 I need you and need you bad. Suppose you're out of call ; 
 where am I? You stay around within reach and I'll give 
 up badgering you. Is it a bargain?" 
 
 I gave up my plans reluctantly, but I gave them up. 
 
 I stayed, outwardly reluctant but inwardly content. 
 Beginning with the first summer of the Shadow III my 
 life centered more and more about the Arrowrock colony. 
 Lewis, wise in the commission business and wiser still in 
 affairs nautical, had secured me a membership in the club 
 with my purchase of the Shadow II. In the three sum- 
 mers during which Kavenaugh and I had loafed up and 
 down the coast I had been only an infrequent visitor at 
 the Arrowrock, coming and going, dropping in whenever 
 my wandering inclination led the Shadow II in that direc- 
 tion. We appeared at intervals, loitered about for a few 
 days, revived acquaintance, and then passed on. 
 
 I payed dues, the Shadow was listed on the club regis- 
 ter, I received notices of elections and assessments. But 
 I was still an outlander, an odd fish, a lesser comet of 
 uncalculated orbit, touching their system at intervals 
 and then vanishing. At one time I thought rather seri- 
 ously of becoming more than an absentee member and 
 acquired twenty acres of rocks and scrub growth across 
 the bay, with a vague intention of building there. Then 
 some other interest claimed my attention and I forgot 
 this plan in some newer and more attractive one. 
 
 The building of the Shadow III changed all this. The 
 Shadow II had been unnoticed, one of a class; she came 
 and went and left no unfilled blank. The Shadow III 
 advanced my rating; through the incident of possession 
 I became a man of importance, my appearance was an 
 event and my disappearance a cause of regret. The 
 Shadow HI added luster to the fame of the Arrowrock, 
 whereas the Shadow II had shone in the reflected luster
 
 226 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 of others. I was urged to stay, consulted where before 
 I had been informed of results, even elected to a minor 
 committee. In stating this change I intend no reflection 
 on the motives of the Arrowrock crowd. We are all 
 judged by the tonnage of our visible possessions. 
 
 I liked the people at the Arrowrock. They were a new 
 type to me, a class which before this I had seen only 
 from the outside. At Whitehaven we had called them "dog- 
 fish," and had followed Captain Waldron's opinion that 
 taking them by and large they were barnacles on the ship 
 of progress. Now that I became a dogfish myself I looked 
 on them with kindlier eyes. I contrasted them with other 
 classes that I knew and found the others suffering by the 
 contrast. They were perhaps less keen than the young 
 Jews whom I knew through Marks, but I had found these 
 upper class Hebrews usually keen on one angle only and 
 blunted on all others. The Arrowrock people lacked the 
 earnestness of Stowell and Theresa's class of pseudo- 
 professional uplifters of one sort and another; they were 
 more tolerant, less positive, children were children and 
 not raw material for the Montessori method; life was no 
 less real but not quite so much concerned with the wel- 
 fare of Mrs. Tony Guardanolupos and the installment of 
 a budget system in the police and sewer departments. 
 And, lastly and unlike the Worthingtons, they evinced 
 only a polite interest in the Irish players and considered 
 Cubism and Vorticism amusing rather than evidences of 
 progress. 
 
 As I think of the Arrowrock, of the broad gray roof 
 and the broader gallery above the float, of the bustle and 
 clatter of conversation and the eternal passing and re- 
 passing of tanned and healthy faces, I sigh for the first 
 time since I began this book. All that is past now and 
 gone. I look back on it and get an effect of post-prandial 
 enjoyment; I had eaten to repletion of the strong meat 
 of business, had my dessert in the three cream puff years 
 of the Shadow II and now sat contentedly surveying the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 227 
 
 more enjoyable side of life. I never joined any one clique 
 at the Arrowrock, perhaps because I am one of those 
 enviable mortals who say little and are good listeners, 
 perhaps because I found it more enjoyable to look on. I 
 was essentially a looker-on. I look on now, in memory, 
 as familiar faces pass by, happy ghosts in the clear after- 
 noon sunshine. Or perhaps I am the ghost, cut off from 
 their life, still lingering about the pleasant places of other 
 days. 
 
 Certain faces stand out from the crowd. I see Cad- 
 berry, our immigrant problem; an Oxford man with a 
 passion for archeological research. He plans a new 
 series of lectures at New Haven this year, I understand; 
 certain theories of his have changed since the winter of 
 1913. As I see him he wears the ragged blue blazer with 
 the rose embroidered on the breast pocket which he re- 
 serves for gala occasions ; with the beard which he grew 
 in the Yucatan wilderness and decided was becoming he 
 resembles the less Mephistophelian portraits of Mr. Ber- 
 nard Shaw. 
 
 Mrs. Fairleigh passes, half content now, for one of her 
 Botticellian daughters is at last married off and she has 
 only one cause for worry left another daughter. Worry 
 keeps one thin, I observe cynically, and I think that she 
 overhears, for she turns and makes a face at me. She is 
 a good and kindly soul, even though she insists against 
 all reason that she had a hand in my marriage. 
 
 Peter Annersley passes, grayer haired and somehow 
 more youthful than ever. He and J. Everhard Lewis 
 still debate their old question of centerboard vs. keel; 
 with a pair of churchwarden pipes, two tankards and 
 ruffles at throat and wrist, the pair of them might pose 
 for two fox hunting English squires of the last cen- 
 tury. Annersley has aged of late, for I hear him quoting 
 Larry, an unheard of thing. 
 
 "Industrial Janizaries, my son calls them," he says,
 
 228 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 and I am left in doubt whether the Janizaries he refers to 
 are munition workers or some newly listed stock. 
 
 Other faces pass in review, a long procession of them; 
 new faces and old faces ; people whom I knew slightly 
 and those who considered the Shadow as much their pos- 
 session as mine. I have mentioned only those who have 
 a place in this story ; there are a host of others who were 
 equally important at the time. There is Ham Porgis, 
 meditating some new asininity ; Robinson, talking war 
 bonds instead of Cobalt; Blake, his once placid face 
 showing signs of worry. I sold him the Shadow at his 
 own ridiculous figure and have no sympathy for him. 
 
 Blake makes an incongruous figure solely by reason of 
 his worried air. The one quality that the Arrowrock 
 people had in common, the one thing that stamped them 
 as a class, was the absence of worry. They were frankly 
 well pleased with themselves, almost belligerently unafraid 
 of the future, and, above all, with no exaggerated notion 
 of the importance of their own activities. They enjoyed 
 life in a singularly unfurtive and courageous manner and 
 made no pretense of doing anything else. 
 
 The puckery, Puritanic, New England conscience must 
 be very dilute in me; despite the fact that this life was 
 manifestedly wasteful and unproductive, I liked it. I 
 clung to it despite Marks' unveiled sarcasm and Stowell's 
 blundering attempts to interest me in municipal efficiency. 
 I found more pleasure in wasting than in producing. 
 
 rv 
 
 In this survey of the Arrowrock crowd I have left out 
 two figures, left them out intentionally. Figures stood 
 out, I said ; the Annersley twins, Lawrence and Lauretta, 
 stood out so far that they seemed outside. I have dim 
 memories of them as part of the crowd during the years 
 of the Shadow II; I remember Larry as a gangling youth
 
 FLOOD TIDE 229 
 
 with a silky voice changeable silk and Lauretta I fail 
 to remember at all. 
 
 Then young Larry wrecked the Dart one of the first 
 of the wave-gatherers, more of an experiment than any- 
 thing else, built on the graceful lines of a bread tin and 
 productive chiefly of noise and speed. He took her out in 
 a stiff breeze and lost control, with the result that the 
 Dart went clam digging and Kav and I put out in the 
 tender to rescue Larry. 
 
 We met him swimming in as calmly as though such ac- 
 cidents were every-day affairs. We pulled him aboard 
 and started back; as we went along he and Kavenaugh 
 argued over the cause of the accident. He took his ship- 
 wreck with remarkable coolness, holding a cigarette gin- 
 gerly between wet fingers and being careful not to drip 
 on the cushions. 
 
 "I told you," argued Kavenaugh. "You shifted the en- 
 gine too far aft; she got up on her tail and of course 
 she steered what the deuce !" 
 
 He broke off and stared at Larry, who slid down limply 
 on the floor of the cockpit, his head lying back inert on 
 the seat. 
 
 "My sister," said Larry, out of the corner of his mouth. 
 "She'll give me the devil because she's missed the fun. 
 I'm all right ; this is for her benefit." 
 
 He gestured ahead to the float ; a girl in a striped blazer 
 and white skirt ran down the long run leading from the 
 clubhouse, a small and excited terrier revolving about her 
 like a satellite. She crossed the float and waited for us 
 as Kavenaugh shut off the power and we circled up along- 
 side ; the terrier went quite mad with excitement and tore 
 excitedly up and down the float as we drew in. Larry's 
 sister stood waiting. 
 
 "No use hiding," she called angrily. "I saw you from 
 the house. You wait! You sneaked off and . . . Oh!" 
 
 She caught sight of Larry's quiet figure and, without 
 hesitation, leaped the intervening space of water. The
 
 230 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 boat rocked, and Larry lolled to and fro horribly. He 
 opened one eye as she kneeled beside him, then closed it 
 and opened the other. He groaned realistically. 
 
 "I'm all right, Laury," he said. "Hit my head, I guess." 
 
 "And I was going to scold you!" she exclaimed peni- 
 tently. 
 
 "I deserve it>" he assented. "But you might have been 
 hurt." 
 
 "Huh! I can swim as well as you can," she asserted. 
 "You're not really hurt, then?" 
 
 "I feel better already," said Larry in relief. "But if 
 it hadn't been for Coffin- 
 Lauretta sat back on her heels and smiled up at me. I 
 had an impression of gray eyes wide apart beneath smooth 
 brown hair, a nose with a tiny drift of freckles across the 
 bridge, and a square little chin. 
 
 "Thank you," she said seriously, and extended her 
 hand. 
 
 "It was Kavenaugh, really," I said in embarrassment. 
 
 She included Kavenaugh in her smile of gratitude. "But 
 you, especially," she said, and smiled at me again, still 
 holding my hand. I was aware of another sensation be- 
 side embarrassment; it had been a long time since any 
 woman had looked at me other than impersonally. 
 
 Then Timmy, the terrier, created a diversion by licking 
 Larry's face. Larry declared himself completely recov- 
 ered, since the threatened scolding seemed averted. They 
 went off together up the run to the clubhouse as we set 
 out again for the Shadow; all the way out Kavenaugh 
 chuckled to himself and I wondered how I had forgotten 
 that Peter Annersley had so good looking a daughter. 
 And why had she looked at me in that fashion? Grati- 
 tude? 
 
 I came ashore that night and found myself somewhat 
 of a hero, much to my surprise and disgust. Ham Por- 
 giss, that industrious liar, had been busy; Larry had 
 gone down for the third time and I had risked my life
 
 FLOOD TIDE 231 
 
 diving for him. Peter Annersley insisted upon playing 
 the heavy father and making a great fuss over me. In 
 desperation I told him the simple truth, that Larry could 
 have swum ashore without help and that whatever rescue 
 there had been was Kavenaugh's doing. I was accused 
 of colossal modesty. . . . 
 
 I date my real interest in the Arrowrock crowd from 
 this time. The Shadow became a mere dormitory and 
 ferry boat for week end trips ; I spent more and more of 
 my time ashore. And the greater part of this time ashore 
 was passed at the gray roofed Annersley house between 
 the Fairleighs' overpretentious Colonial front and the 
 great rambling Garvin place. Larry voiced the opinion 
 that I was a good scout. Lauretta adopted me. The 
 fact that I was a canvas spoiler was discovered; the Ar- 
 rowrock people in general were convinced that I was quite 
 a personage. Even Aunt Hatty, the straight backed, 
 withered old soul who kept house for Peter, was won over. 
 And I enjoyed it all. Your solitary man always yearns to 
 be noticed; the more solitary he has been the more he 
 enjoys being courted by others. 
 
 I, once called "Gloomy Gus" by a pompadoured typist, 
 became adept in making myself agreeable. I discovered 
 that I could talk for an hour with Mrs. Fairleigh's two 
 empty headed daughters, say nothing, and yet leave be- 
 hind me the impression that I was all there mentally. Not 
 that I degenerated into a "parlor snake" or a "fan hound" 
 I cull from Larry's pure collegiate English but I 
 discovered a vein of metal which I proceeded to coin into 
 the counters which pass current among Arrowrock crowds. 
 I observed, I imitated in common with yourself and some 
 millions of others I cherish the belief that in me the stage 
 lost a shining light and thanks perhaps to the charitable 
 inclinations of my audience I succeeded in passing off my 
 imitations as genuine metal. . . . 
 
 One of my audience was convinced, and the discovery 
 of the fact brought me up short for a while.
 
 232 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Peter had gone through some minor triumph that day 
 beaten Larry and young Peaslee eighteen holes, I think 
 and was correspondingly elated when I dropped around 
 that evening. I heard the details of the victory; Lewis 
 appeared, all white shirt front and ruddy face, and I 
 heard the details again. They drifted off into reminis- 
 cences of the wool brokerage business and its deterioration 
 since they had left it. Lauretta, at the piano behind us, 
 played one of Macdowell's sea symphonies, a great crash- 
 ing thing with the surge and sweep of galleons in mid- 
 Atlantic running through it, the keen shrill of winds in 
 taut rigging in its overtones. Presently the music 
 dwindled into random chords and ceased. Peter and J. 
 Everhard still plodded on. Some impulse led me to turn 
 and glance over my shoulder at Lauretta. 
 
 She had swung around from the keyboard and sat with 
 her shoulders drooping forward, her clasped hands inert 
 on her knees. . . . She looked at me with a curious in- 
 tentness ; what I saw in her eyes brought my heart into 
 my throat. For a bare instant her eyes met mine, then 
 she flushed, swung around again and started to play in- 
 accurately. She played for a moment, struck a great 
 jangling chord, and then jumped up and left the 
 room. . . . 
 
 For a week after that I avoided the Annerleys. I knew 
 that look, knew what it meant. It troubled me. I had 
 seen it before, the last time in the eyes of a cashier at one 
 of our stores. Then, as now, I had deliberately run away. 
 But then I had forgotten it in work the cashier was not 
 particularly attractive, besides ; now I dwelt on it, argued 
 with myself, thought of taking the Shadow off on a cruise 
 and was restrained from abject flight only by a sense of 
 humor. Running away from what? 
 
 "It won't do," I argued, until old habit put the ques- 
 tion why? into my head. There was no answer. I spare 
 you a statement of my mental processes. These dialogues
 
 FLOOD TIDE 233 
 
 of a semi-confirmed bachelor are interesting to no one 
 save himself. 
 
 I came back to the Annersleys eventually, came back 
 cautiously and lost my caution as I found nothing 
 changed. Lauretta met me with an exaggerated but well 
 simulated indifference, Larry had been away on a cruise 
 and had failed to notice my absence, Peter had developed 
 a habit of slicing his drives and had troubles of his own. 
 
 There was no repetition of that look, and in time I al- 
 most doubted that I had seen it. Lauretta treated me 
 the same as she did every one, bullied me covertly, flat- 
 tered, interfered, and then smiled at me with gray eyes 
 beneath level brows with the same smile which she em- 
 ployed to secure her ends with others. Her apparent main 
 object in life was having her own way. On one week end 
 trip which the Annersleys took with me she flattered Berg- 
 son, my sailing master, into forgetting his gray hair and 
 grandchildren, got herself nicely messy and oily in Kave- 
 naugh's sacred engine room, and reduced Karl, the cook, 
 to abject slavery. He waxed his mustache and changed 
 his apron three times daily during that trip and spent 
 much time and labor in concocting what he proudly an- 
 nounced as sauce Laurette. 
 
 But despite the fact that to all appearances I was 
 only one of the crowd, I clung to the memory of that look. 
 I found it a pleasant memory, after all. And, by subtle 
 gradations, I progressed to wondering what she had seen 
 in me to inspire that look. I finally decided that it was 
 the manner of the beaux tenebreux which, unconsciously 
 or not, I had acquired. A beaux tenebreux, as Estey 
 used to tell us, is the gloomy, raven haired hero of the 
 old French classical drama. 
 
 "He has three characteristics," I remember Estey say- 
 ing, "a plumed hat, a cloak, and a past full of sorrow. 
 . . . That type," he added dryly, "is always very inter- 
 esting to women."
 
 234 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 But Estey was very much married and I doubt if his 
 testimony was unbiased. 
 
 A fragment of one of Captain Waldron's highly colored 
 romances recurs to me. He described a ship which he had 
 once sailed on. 
 
 "She was a ratty old hooker," he said reminiscently, 
 "and more mates than a few had cussed their way into 
 hell from off her decks." 
 
 His description applies to the Shadow III, not that 
 she was a "ratty old hooker," but that I nearly followed 
 the example of the legendary mates. 
 
 Marks was the cause. His desire to reinterest me in 
 business was neither dead nor sleeping. Despite our agree- 
 ment, or perhaps in accordance with his interpretation 
 of it, he persisted in breaking in on me, finding new meth- 
 ods of interference, trying them, and passing on to some 
 new method as he found me still recalcitrant. His most 
 annoying act was the dragging of the Shadow into busi- 
 ness, following the precedent of Mohamet and the moun- 
 tain. 
 
 He came to consider the Shadow as an extension of 
 the offices, rather than my private possession. Nearly 
 every Saturday saw a crowd brought down for a week 
 end outing the consummation of some business deal lurk- 
 ing in the background. Marks always wore a smug smile 
 of satisfaction as they disembarked on Monday. Finally 
 he went too far. My patience snapped. There was a deal 
 on with an especially hard-faced crowd the Western 
 Biscuit people, I think they were. I ran the Shadow out 
 beyond Montauk in a stiff breeze, pumped out half the 
 water ballast and stalled the engines all quite uninten- 
 tionally. The entire crowd, Marks included, were most 
 enthusiastically seasick. The deal fell through and Marks 
 never forgave me.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 235 
 
 He was far from cordial that winter. Whether or not 
 he suspected that he had been the victim of a conspiracy, 
 I know that after the failure of our negotiations with 
 Western Biscuit his objections to my absence ceased 
 abruptly. He became indifferent; whether I came or 
 went was a matter of no moment to him. In one way I 
 regretted the change. This intermittent debate on work 
 vs. pleasure had been a game between us, sometimes ser- 
 ious and sometimes not, and its cessation left an unfilled 
 blank. 
 
 But his indifference failed to trouble me greatly. I was 
 not longer dependent solely on The Stores for employ- 
 ment during the winter. The Fairleighs and the Lewises 
 and Peter Annersley stayed at the Arrowrock that win- 
 ter and I became a frequent visitor. 
 
 On one of these visits I was inspired, through J. Ever- 
 hard, to revive my plans for building on the twenty acres 
 that I had bought across the bay. I even became involved 
 in negotiations with a young architect named DeWitt, 
 an engaging personality with tortoise shell spectacles and 
 a sturdy imagination. He became very enthusiastic over 
 my plans I suspect that he needed the money and in 
 due course of time submitted sketches. There were three 
 of these, immense shambling creations burgeoning with 
 turrets and gables, all evidently planned with the object 
 of finding out just how much I would stand for. We 
 spent an evening over them at J. Everhard's and finally 
 decided that by cutting off fifty feet and three turrets 
 from the least blatant of DeWitt's constructions we 
 might obtain something which would serve. I carried 
 the sketches back to town, threw them on the table and 
 forgot them. Young DeWitt bothered me occasionally 
 for a time and then apparently forgot them also. They 
 lay there and gathered dust until Lauretta dug them 
 out. 
 
 She and Larry came down to the old rooms which I 
 still clung to, intent upon dragging me off to the the-
 
 236 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 ater; during their Christmas vacation it must have been, 
 for I remember sloshing through wet snow on my way 
 home. Some unexpected business had detained me at 
 the office; on my arrival I found that Lauretta, tiring of 
 inaction, had started to clean up the table which served 
 as catch-all for books, pamphlets, letters and those 
 thousand miscellaneous articles which have no settled place 
 in the general order of things. In the process she had 
 unearthed DeWitt's ambitious drawings from one of the 
 lower strata and pegged them out on the table with ink- 
 pots and paste jars. She and Larry surveyed them in 
 wonder as I entered; Skip, in the background, hovered 
 visibly between a desire to please my visitors and fear of 
 the consequences which might arise from this disturbance 
 of the sacred catch-all. 
 
 "I know that this one is a sanitarium," said Larry, 
 "but these others are too large for apartment houses and 
 too small for hotels. What are they, Coffin Bakst ar- 
 chitectural nightmares ?" 
 
 "Regular houses," I answered. " 'Designed for John 
 Coffin, Esq., by R. Plympton DeWitt,' just as the label 
 in the corner says. Nice places, aren't they?" 
 
 "Very homelike," said Lauretta sarcastically. "But 
 who's going to live in them? Not you?" 
 
 "You've guessed it. On the north shore you know 
 that land I bought two years ago? Which one would 
 look best?" 
 
 "Really?" said Lauretta, looking at me in disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 "Why not? Everhard Lewis approves of this one." 
 I indicated a French chateau with Colonial influence. 
 
 "Oh, that !" she said scornfully. "He has rotten taste." 
 She studied the drawings for a moment with growing 
 scorn. "This DeWitt shouldn't be allowed at large 
 putting silly ideas in people's heads. Promise me that 
 you won't build any of these."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 237 
 
 I promised willingly enough. I had no great need of 
 a house. "But you're depriving a struggling young ar- 
 chitect of a chance to shine." 
 
 "Depriving him of a chance to make an idiot of him- 
 self and you too," she answered, biting thoughtfully at 
 the end of a pencil. "And I have a plan of my own not 
 exactly mine, for I stole it, just as he stole these, prob- 
 ably. But mine is stolen from a home, not a dipsoma- 
 niac vision like these." 
 
 She reversed one of the sheets and drew little lines 
 thoughtfully. "Do you remember how we used to go over 
 there when we were kids, Larry? When dad would let 
 us, and sometimes when he wouldn't. And 
 
 "And I used to get licked for leading you astray," 
 laughed Larry. 
 
 "I know and it was always my fault, really. You 
 used to fish off Valentine's Rock where the man hid from 
 the Indians while I played house on that little level patch 
 between the two arms of rock that come down from the 
 woods. You must know that place," she appealed to 
 me, "they come down like two sprawling lion's paws, with 
 those big pines for the lion's head. And once in a while 
 he bends over and sniffs at the top of the big oak that 
 stands in the level place. ... I used to plan houses that 
 I would build there some day, when my ship came in. 
 They were foolish houses, of course, worse than these 
 here, all turrets and wings and angles. But last winter 
 I found the house that belongs there; of course you 
 couldn't move it down there, but you could build one like 
 it around the oak tree. Not around it, exactly, but be- 
 hind it. Like this." 
 
 We bent over the table on either side of her as she 
 sketched rapidly. She made a tiny ground plan in the 
 shape of a letter L first; "Just to get the angle of the 
 gables," she explained in a patronizing tone. Then, 
 with that as a basis, the front elevation grew under her
 
 238 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 swift strokes. It was a very simple plan, just a low, 
 broad structure with a roof coming down midway be- 
 tween the two stories and pierced by dormer windows for 
 the chambers. The interior angle of the L was cut across 
 at a point midway on the arms to give dignity to the 
 entrance; on either side, where it joined the arms, she 
 drew an immense chimney half protruding from the struc- 
 ture and reaching up above it to a level with the ridge- 
 pole. 
 
 She leaned back and regarded her work dubiously. "It 
 lacks detail," she criticized. "There's a doorway here," 
 indicating the filled angle, "with a broad fanlight over 
 it and trellises on each side. And in the angle is the oak 
 tree, with perhaps a paved court around it. It's just 
 a rough sketch but do you like it?" 
 
 "I do like it," I agreed. "I'll build your house." 
 
 "Good!" she said in satisfaction, and began to sketch 
 in details, windows and the stonework of the chimneys 
 and the trellises on either side of the entrance. Larry 
 tired of watching her, yawned, and- went over to inspect 
 my book case. . . . 
 
 "It's not mine," she said as she put on the finishing 
 touches about the base of the oak tree. Her tone was 
 one of abstraction; yet there was a slight quaver in her 
 voice. 
 
 "Nor mine either, until you've finished it," I answered. 
 
 "Poor orphan house!" she said softly, so softly that I 
 should have missed her voice had my head not been close 
 to hers as I leaned over the table beside her. 
 
 "We might adopt it together call it ours," I suggested 
 in her own tone. 
 
 There was no answer. But her flying fingers stumbled, 
 and as I watched I saw a deep flush pass over her half 
 averted face, pass slowly as the first gleam of dawn 
 touches and awakens a quiet expanse of untroubled 
 water. .
 
 FLOOD TIDE 239 
 
 By June the Shack as Larry christened it was well 
 on the road to completion. Young DeWitt was surprised 
 at my sudden burst of enthusiasm and seemed rather to 
 resent the discarding of his carefully planned structures. 
 After one or two weak attempts to show the superiority 
 of his plans over Lauretta's he gave in, consulted an 
 apochryphal list of engagements and promised to devote 
 his entire time to my service. With her rough sketch 
 as a basis he evolved a marvelously technical set of plans, 
 and, upon receiving Lauretta's permission, work was 
 started. By June he had run up the walls and crowned 
 them with the red tiled roof; the rougher part of the 
 work had been accomplished and the workmen were busy 
 on the interior. 
 
 I came down to the Arrowrock earlier than ever that 
 year, partly with the childish feeling that by coming 
 early I was showing Marks that his indifference had no 
 effect on me, partly because I found building houses and 
 boats more pleasant than wrestling with unrealities at the 
 offices. Besides the Shack I supervised the building of 
 the two boats which Larry and I had planned Warp and 
 Woof we called them finally. Cheyney built them for us 
 at his yards, and with Kavenaugh's assistance we had 
 them ready when Larry and Lauretta returned from 
 school. For the first time in a long while I was really 
 busy at creation, creating little things, spending money 
 rather than making it, but still busy and glad of it. 
 
 I remember many pleasant things of that summer as I 
 sit here and look back on it, and through all these re- 
 membrances, binding them together and connecting the 
 disassociated parts, runs the figure of Lauretta, always 
 with the faint half smile on her lips and a little sun drift 
 of freckles across the bridge of her nose and always hav- 
 ing her own way. She bullied and flattered young De- 
 Witt into a state of abject slavery, suggesting changes
 
 240 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 in the Shack and then persuading him, in some subtle 
 way, that the suggestions were his own. She stole the 
 Woof and went off on private excursions across the 
 Sound, coming back disappointed because the Woof re- 
 fused to misbehave. She and Larry beat me at every- 
 thing save tennis and swimming. Tennis I refused to 
 play unless they eliminated the net which some confounded 
 fool left across the court to catch my best smashes ; 
 they refused my simple request and I was content to sit 
 with Peter on the side lines. Swimming has always been 
 my one physical accomplishment; it has always been the 
 greatest fun in the world to swing slowly along with head 
 buried, watching the crabs and schools of cunners among 
 the sea weed and kelp in the swaying green depths below. 
 Once in a while Larry beat me in a sprint out to the raft, 
 but Lauretta always lagged far behind. 
 
 And, incidentally, I won the confidence of Aunt Hatty. 
 During the previous summer she had regarded me with 
 shadowy suspicion, as a newcomer and one whose niches 
 in Arrowrock society was not yet secured. Now I seemed 
 secure of my place, and my appearance set the clockwork 
 smile in motion. At one time or another she made me 
 the confidant of a vast volume of family history; how 
 Larry had always been a trial to her, how Lauretta had 
 always been stubborn, and a rather embarrassing subject 
 how Peter always forgot to change his shirts until she 
 wrested the old one from him by main force. Usually 
 she talked about Lauretta and I listened willingly. 
 
 I remember one afternoon in particular ; she talked mo- 
 notonously and busied herself over an endless piece of 
 embroidery while I listened patiently. I give you only 
 fragments of her main thread ; between fragments she wan- 
 dered off into limitless fields of inconsequential memories. 
 
 ". . . bit her in the leg and she never so much as cried. 
 A little yellow dog it was, and she wouldn't let them shoot 
 it ... left a scar, of course, but out of sight. . . . Very 
 forward, although I guess there are enough of the other
 
 FLOOD TIDE 241 
 
 kind around . . . she gets it from the other side of the 
 family . . . hit him in the eye . . . cried because Law- 
 rence said he would enlist in the navy so she couldn't 
 bother him . . . swore dreadfully and Peter spanked her 
 ... all arms and limbs as girls are at that age . . . fell 
 out of the tree and broke her nose. But she climbed 
 higher than Lawrence." 
 
 She broke a thread at this point and her gurgling flow 
 of ancient history ceased. The thread mended, she paused 
 with needle poised. 
 
 "She takes a great interest in your new house," she 
 said, and shot me an oblique glance over one thin shoulder. 
 
 Aunt Hatty, I decided, was not so dull as some people 
 believed her to be. 
 
 All things come to an end, and so did the building of 
 the Shack. In late August the contractor unwillingly 
 confessed that he could find no further excuse for keeping 
 his crew about the place; the captains of the saw and 
 chisel and the kings of the trowel and spade departed re- 
 luctantly. I watched the last of them go that afternoon, 
 locked the doors and went over to town in the Warp. 
 
 There was no one about the Annersley place, the piazza 
 was deserted, but from the living room came weird wails 
 mingled with the frantic yelping of Timmy. Larry and 
 Lauretta were at the further end of the room, bent over 
 the phonograph; before it sat Timmy, wailing to high 
 heaven and beating the floor steadily with his little stub 
 tail. He yelped in greeting as I entered and ran to me for 
 protection from his tormentors, whining and lapping 
 wildly at my face as I picked him up. He had good rea- 
 son for his wails. The phonograph shrieked and wailed 
 away, its song now rising to a high banshee whine and 
 now dying away into guttural growls, like a full orches-
 
 242 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 tra of the Chinese fiddles which perhaps boys still make 
 from tin cans and resined string. 
 
 "A new record?" I made myself audible above the fiend- 
 ish clamor. 
 
 "An old one played backward," grinned Larry, listen- 
 ing with appreciation. "Played for Timmy's benefit. 
 He likes it." 
 
 Lauretta slid down on the floor and gathered the wail- 
 ing Timmy in her arms. "He's tinkered with its innards, 
 as Kavenaugh would say," she explained. "It runs back- 
 ward. There, there Timmy, shall we shut it off?" Timmy 
 burrowed his head into the folds of her dress and sig- 
 nified his assent. 
 
 "We had to do something," said Larry as he switched 
 off the wails, "so we made Timmy pay his board." 
 
 "Mean things, aren't they, Timmy?" Timmy shook 
 himself free, smelled disapprovingly of the cabinet, and 
 stalked off in dignity, taking the life of the party with 
 him. 
 
 Larry tinkered with the "innards" of the machine again, 
 tried a record to see if it ran correctly, listened lazily, 
 and then subsided to yawning indolence. Lauretta made 
 one or two half hearted efforts to find something inter- 
 esting about the room, failed, and succumbed to the 
 drowsy afternoon languor. I pawed over the magazines, 
 found them all old, and yawned in sympathy with Larry. 
 Timmy reappeared, preceded by a pitter-patter of toe- 
 nails across the piazza; he looked around droopy eyed, 
 yawned, thumped his tail, and yawned again. Larry 
 laughed and threw a book at him. 
 
 "Most insulting dog I ever saw," he said, and then, with 
 a faint show of interest: "How's the Shack coming 
 along?" 
 
 "Burrows called off the last of his men to-day," I an- 
 swered. "He declared with tears in his eyes that he 
 couldn't think of another thing to do." 
 
 "Industrious race, carpenters," commented Larry.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 243 
 
 "When they can't find anything to do there just isn't 
 anything. No use looking." He yawned again. "Dull 
 old town. I'll be glad to get back to work again." 
 
 "Fine lot of work you do," scoffed Lauretta. She 
 thought for a moment, then jumped up, filled with a sud- 
 den idea. "I have it," she announced. "We'll go over 
 in the Louise and inspect the house. We haven't been 
 over that way for a month, Larry." 
 
 "Too late," objected Larry. 
 
 "Nonsense," she decided. "I'll get up a lunch and we 
 can stay as long as we please." 
 
 "I detest picnic lunches," Larry objected. "Ham sand- 
 wiches Graham crackers red ants spiders warm 
 olives in a long necked bottle and nothing to spear them 
 with. And besides," seized with a sudden spasm of right- 
 eousness, "I ought to plug for those deferred exams of 
 mine. Back to the old grind again." 
 
 "Logical, isn't he?" commented Lauretta. "You're 
 coming whether you want to or not. You can bring your 
 books." 
 
 "Darned tyrant!" grumbled Larry as she went off to 
 pack up the luncheon. . . . 
 
 Lauretta came back weighted down with an immense 
 hamper which she set down with a thud. "I just grabbed 
 everything in sight," she said, licking her fingers. She 
 linked her arm in mine and we started. "Be careful of 
 it, Larry," she called back. 
 
 I looked around. Larry tried the weight of the ham- 
 per, grinned, scratched his head, and then picked it up 
 and started after us. 
 
 "Is it heavy?" she asked as we went down the hill. 
 
 Larry shifted it from one arm to the other and said 
 that he could carry it all day. 
 
 "I put in only seven books," she went on with a smoth- 
 ered laugh. I think that Larry swore under his breath. 
 Sometimes his patience was sorely tried. 
 
 We went over in the Louise, the slow, comfortable old
 
 244 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 sloop which Peter Annersley still clung to, sliding slowly 
 along in the light breeze with the green shore, hazy in 
 the afternoon sun, on our left. 
 
 "It fits in, doesn't it?" said Lauretta lazily, as we 
 rounded the last point and saw the house. Her descrip- 
 tion was accurate. It did fit in. It had an air of per- 
 manency, of having been there for uncounted years. 
 Barring a lack of hangings at the windows and a bare 
 patch here and there on the lawn, it was complete. The 
 great oak hung over the two chimneys as though it had 
 brushed their tops for years ; the dark masses of the pines 
 stood on tiptoe and peered over the roof from the rocky 
 heights behind to catch a glimpse of the quiet Sound and 
 the far blue coast of Long Island. 
 
 We landed and went over the completed house, bare of 
 furniture and with the floors still littered with odds and 
 ends of plaster and lumber, but still a finished work. 
 Lauretta was frankly pleased with it all, for it was partly 
 her work, and even Larry agreed that it was "some hovel." 
 As for myself well, it was a house and I had built it and 
 meant to live in it some day. I took more pleasure in 
 showing it than in the house itself. 
 
 The sun was low when we finished our survey and 
 Larry began to hint that it was time he was paid for 
 his labors with the hamper. He proposed that we eat 
 under the tree before the house. 
 
 "Indeed we will not," decided Lauretta. "We'll eat in 
 the house like regular folks. Don't be a savage, Larry. 
 You two can get those saw horses down from upstairs 
 and bring in those loose planks, too. We'll have a table." 
 
 She surveyed our work critically. "And now clear 
 out," she ordered. "Mustn't interfere with the cook. If 
 you want, you can go down to the Louise and bring up 
 three of the folding chairs. And don't hurry back." 
 
 We were loitering back up the slope when she appeared 
 at the doorway and beat on a sheet of copper roofing, in 
 the lack of a dinner gong.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 245 
 
 During our short absence she had worked wonders. 
 White linen and silver gleamed on the table beneath 
 shaded candles ; the rubbish left by the carpenters blazed 
 and flickered in the fireplace. She had even found time 
 to roll in the neck of her dress and turn up the sleeves 
 in passable imitation of an evening gown. Larry sur- 
 veyed the transformed room, whistled in amazement and 
 then bowed to her gravely. 
 
 "Pardon our rough appearance," he said. "You should 
 have packed our evening clothes in the hamper." 
 
 "I didn't think of it," she confessed, flushed and smil- 
 ing. 
 
 "You remembered everything else," he conceded in 
 appreciation. 
 
 He even forgave her the weight of the hamper as the 
 meal progressed, and when he leaned back with a sigh 
 of repletion Laury produced from beneath the table a 
 vacuum bottle filled with steaming coffee. Larry ap- 
 plauded. She reached again and brought up a tin of 
 cigarettes. 
 
 "Aladdin and his lamp have nothing on you," he said 
 in rare praise. 
 
 The slow summer twilight drew on as we talked; dark- 
 ness crept across the dim blue vista of the Sound. All 
 outside faded to a velvety blur, with only the slender mast 
 of the Louise reaching up against the eastern sky and 
 tracing slow arabesques against the last reflection of the 
 sunset. 
 
 Larry became vaguely expectant regarding the coming 
 year, and then drifted off into a recital of the exploits of 
 one "old 'Fox' Trott," his room mate of the past year. 
 He modestly suppressed his own part in the exploits. I 
 listened automatically, interjecting comments at suitable 
 points, really engrossed in watching Lauretta's profile. 
 She sat between us, facing the last flicker of the tiny fire, 
 resting her chin on her hands and gazing far away at 
 nothing. I wondered what she thought of the house which
 
 246 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 she had planned, progressed from that to wondering what 
 she thought of me, and from that drifted off into thoughts 
 of my own. 
 
 " entuthen excelones ires parasangus," said Larry fi- 
 nally, with a note of question in his voice. 
 
 "Yes. Go on," I answered in faint encouragement. 
 
 "Uh huh," murmured Laury, and nodded at something 
 beyond the unseen coast of Long Island. 
 
 A jangle of spinning metal brought me back to the 
 present. I looked up to see two coppers on the plate in 
 the center of the table. 
 
 "For your thoughts," offered Larry. 
 
 Lauretta looked up, bewildered ; her eyes met mine and 
 held them for a long moment and I had a glimpse of the 
 vision which had engrossed her attention. Then the fire 
 flared up in an expiring gasp and her color changed. 
 
 "Don't be foolish, Larry," she said severely as he 
 shook the plate before her. "No, not even for both cents. 
 One one silly person is enough for one family. Go on ; 
 you were saying something about Fox Trott and the 
 book agent?" 
 
 Larry took up his recital again, badgered by her in- 
 cessant questions. He had asked for attention, she de- 
 fended. 
 
 It was late dusk when we dismantled the table and 
 packed up. We made our way down to the landing in 
 procession, lighting the way with the candles ; their clear 
 yellow flames ascended flickerless in the evening calm. We 
 hoisted the sail and stood out, scarcely moving under the 
 impulse of the slow breath of wind beyond the point. 
 
 "You'll find your books still in the hamper, Larry," 
 observed Lauretta sweetly. 
 
 "I never study by lamplight," he announced. "Bad for 
 the eyes, you know." 
 
 "And after carrying them all this way." 
 
 "That's so," he considered. "It is a waste of effort,
 
 FLOOD TIDE 247 
 
 isn't it? I suppose I may as well have a look at the 
 Faerie Queene. I can get that out of the way." 
 
 He went below, and the yellow radiance of the swing- 
 ing lamp shone out and made a little world of light in the 
 darkness. We heard the rapid rustle of pages, and his 
 voice came to us, raised in protest. 
 
 "Say, the darned thing takes up the whole book!" he 
 called. "What a whale of a poem !" 
 
 He grumbled for a moment and then settled down to 
 read; quiet descended once more. Something of the spirit 
 of sailing ships came over us, the calm, steady movement, 
 the dependence upon the elemental forces of wind and 
 water, the detachment from all haste. We sailed on, the 
 canvas scarcely drawing, a fragment of light and life 
 amid the dusk. 
 
 The hamper, opened by Larry in his search for Spenser, 
 lay at our feet ; atop of the accumulation within was the 
 plate with Larry's offering. 
 
 "What an idiot he is," said Lauretta in a low voice. 
 She poked at the plate with a slender foot and sent the 
 coins tinkling down among the china and candlesticks 
 below. "I wouldn't have told him. Would you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yes?" she encouraged faintly. 
 
 "I wondered what you thought about me. I think I 
 know." 
 
 "Oh," she said, in a small voice. 
 
 Larry's voice, raised in whining falsetto song not from 
 Spenser, however floated up to us, accompanied by a 
 heel and toe on the locker as he lay sprawled at ease 
 under the light. 
 
 "/ want to marry a dashm' young he-hero, 
 
 Just like they do in a book; 
 One who will carry me far o'er the o-hoshun, 
 
 Some place where no one will look; 
 Ro-homance we'll find in each thing that surrounds us,
 
 248 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 In JiUl side and valley and brook: 
 
 Att will be joyous, 
 
 And girlous and boyous 
 Just like it is M a book." 
 
 Refreshed, he returned to his reading. 
 
 We sat in silence for a moment ; a passing ripple swayed 
 the rudder and brought her shoulder against mine. She 
 remained half leaning against me, her feet bathed in the 
 yellow light of the lamp and all above that a mere blot 
 of white against the darkness. 
 
 "I'm neither dashing, nor young, nor a hero," I said 
 slowly, "but " 
 
 "Does that matter?" she whispered, and raised her 
 head slowly; her dress, still turned in at the throat, 
 showed a little gleaming triangle of sun brown. I slipped 
 my arm about her and drew her close, her face very dim 
 and sweet under the piled masses of her hair. 
 
 "No, it doesn't," I asserted confidently. 
 
 But somehow or other it wasn't "just like it is in a 
 book." I suppose I should say that I went back to the 
 Shadow that night and walked the deck under the silent 
 stars, dreaming strange, sweet dreams and resolving that 
 the new volume which opened before me should be stained 
 by none of the blots and erasures which had marred the 
 old. As a matter of fact, I did nothing of the kind. I 
 walked the deck and thought, but my thoughts were of 
 another order. I wondered whether I was a conquering 
 lover or a captured vassal. I felt more like the second 
 than the first ; I seemed caught up in a whirling progres- 
 sion of events over which I had no control. I felt happy, 
 but it was a happiness strangely mingled with doubt. 
 
 I came ashore the next morning still doubtful. Lau- 
 retta met me at the head of the run leading up from the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 249 
 
 float; my doubts increased rather than diminished as I 
 saw her framed against the shadows of the chart room 
 in the long rays of the morning sun. She looked on me 
 with an air of proprietorship ; when a man passes thirty- 
 five and is still single he instinctively recoils from such a 
 look, however pleased he may be. 
 
 "I saw you coming from the house," she explained 
 frankly. 
 
 I drew two chairs to the rail and we sat looking out 
 over the harbor and the Sound dimpling in the sunlight. 
 The distant coast of Long Island hung suspended in the 
 air, a long blue ragged line hung upon an invisible spring 
 which vibrated slowly. In the harbor below us a sail 
 lifted, crawling upward in slow, regular jerks, caught 
 the faint breeze and stole slowly out through the anchored 
 craft. Lauretta blinked and yawned, then swung her chair 
 about, half facing me. 
 
 "About last night " she hesitated. 
 
 "Yes?" I encouraged, and wondered what was coming. 
 
 She touched the sleeve of my coat in a furtive little 
 caress. "Let's not tell any one, for a while," she said. 
 
 "As you wish," I answered and was conscious of an in- 
 explicable sense of relief. Curiosity prompted me : "But 
 why?" 
 
 "Two reasons, and they're both foolish," she confessed. 
 "I want another year at school. I need it. You wouldn't 
 want me to be half educated all my life, would you? I 
 thought not. And a girl who goes back to school fla- 
 grantly engaged has a rotten time of it. I've seen it work. 
 They're envious, you know and mean." She contem- 
 plated their depravity in silence for a moment. "Not that 
 I care," she said belligerently, "but I do care. You see ?" 
 
 "They " 
 
 "Oh, they look wise whenever you get a letter; they 
 ask silly questions, poke in where they're not wanted." 
 
 "I see. They would pick on you. Don't let them. 
 And the second reason?"
 
 250 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "I don't know whether to tell you or not." She bit 
 her lips and flushed. "I've never had a secret, and I've 
 always wanted one. Look, suppose you and I went to 
 dad this morning and told him? We will, if you want 
 but what would he say?" 
 
 "That's easy," I answered. "Bless you; you're mak- 
 ing a fool of yourself but I can't help it." 
 
 "Exactly. And Larry?" 
 
 "That's a harder one," I considered. "I think he'd 
 fidget about and rub his nose " 
 
 "I've tried to break him of that," she interrupted, as 
 though speaking of a disobedient child. 
 
 " And finally he might say, 'Good work, kid.' " 
 
 "Just so," she agreed. "As prosaic as though I'd said 
 that I was going swimming with you. And Mrs. Fair- 
 leigh " 
 
 "Would burble and splash sentiment all over the 
 place," I concluded. "You're right; we had better keep 
 it a secret." 
 
 "I knew you'd see it," she said in satisfaction. 
 
 "But the romantic part of it " I hesitated. "Are 
 
 there any hollow trees around here? To hide notes in, 
 you know. And I'll serenade you, on dark nights. I know 
 'Bristol Town' and 'Hilo Johnny.' But I'll have to find 
 some one to play the mandolin. There's an Italian bar- 
 ber over town who plays divinely, has big eyes and flow- 
 ing hair and " 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous," she corrected severely. "If you 
 bring any Italian barbers around I'll play the hose on 
 both of you." 
 
 "But it would distract Mrs. Fairleigh," I argued. "She 
 would think that you and the barber surely a Count in 
 the old country " 
 
 She made a grimace and wrinkled her nose at me. 
 "You're making fun of me. One poor little girl, who has 
 always been frank and aboveboard with every one, de-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 251 
 
 mands romance and you give her barbers. Don't you like 
 me any better than that?" 
 
 "I do, Laury," I answered seriously. A rapid survey 
 revealed no one within sight. . . . 
 
 "Clandestine meeting the first," I said as I released her. 
 
 "It's fun this way, isn't it?" she asked breathlessly. . . . 
 
 I was, after all, the conquering lover. But still you 
 know how it is in a dream? You become involved in an 
 impossible sequence of events, a sequence which still seems 
 sane and plausible and pleasant. Yet through it all some 
 wakeful guardian in the back of your consciousness tells 
 you that presently you will awake and come back again to 
 the cold and ordered world of realities. Not that you 
 want to come back, for you don't. But you know that 
 you will.
 
 CHAPTER THE SECOND 
 
 THEN Lauretta discovered a doubt. 
 
 "I'm not sure," she said, apropos of nothing. She 
 twirled her tennis racquet between her hands and gloomily 
 watched Larry and young Peaslee scuffle on the float be- 
 low the veranda. 
 
 "Not sure of what?" I asked. "I'm sure of one thing 
 if your flirtation with young Peaslee goes much further 
 I'll do something desperate." 
 
 "You know why I'm doing it," and she smiled encour- 
 agingly on Peaslee. 
 
 "I know; you've got Larry guessing. But I'm jealous. 
 I thirst for his gore." 
 
 "He's only a silly young boy," she said from the heights 
 of wisdom. Peaslee was only two years older than Lau- 
 retta. But she seemed pleased at my jealousy. 
 
 "You're not sure of what?" I came back to her first 
 remark. 
 
 "Whether I'd better go back to school or not. . . . 
 Up the river like Sing Sing. I do hate to be bossed." 
 
 "You'd rather take your orders from me?" 
 
 "You? Don't you worry about that. . . . But do you 
 really think I'd better?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "So do I really," she admitted. "I wanted to find out 
 what you thought. What are you going to do all win- 
 ter?" 
 
 Larry and Peaslee created a diversion by falling over- 
 \}'. ard in their scuffle and I was saved the necessity of a 
 reply. 
 
 The question troubled me; it lurked in the background 
 252
 
 FLOOD TIDE 253 
 
 during the two weeks which remained before her depar- 
 ture and then came out brazenly and demanded answer. 
 What was I to do during that winter? There was noth- 
 ing new in prospect. I foresaw a winter of working at 
 matters which I didn't care about; a forced companion- 
 ship with uncongenial men. There would be long days 
 at the offices and long evenings alone. Marks would be 
 glad to see me return and would be more reluctant than 
 ever to let me go again in the spring. I would become 
 interested in some problem and work over it when every 
 instinct told me that my work was useless. I foresaw 
 a succession of trade dinners ; I shuddered at the thought 
 that I might be asked to speak. I would resist weakly, 
 then consent, spend a miserable week with the hour of in- 
 quisition drawing nearer and then either be called out 
 of town or prevail on Marks to take my place. I knew; 
 I had been there before. And I knew also that it would 
 be even worse than I imagined it. 
 
 A driving northeaster came whooping in on the day 
 that Lauretta left. For three days I moped around like 
 a lost soul, alternating in dreary monotony between the 
 club house and the Shadow. Across the rain-swept gal- 
 lery of the club one had a view of an endless procession 
 of approaching whitecaps; across the shining decks of 
 the Shadow one had a view of a ceaseless parade of reced- 
 ing whitecaps. It was all highly interesting. There was 
 no solace in the calm, crisp September weather which 
 followed the northeaster. Every one had left or was about 
 to leave, fleeing as though from a pestilence. The season 
 was over. Those who were left were apologetic and de- 
 fensive. The yards toward town sprouted a sudden 
 growth of masts ; what craft were too large to be hauled 
 out for the winter were towed to safe anchorages and 
 decked over for the winter. 
 
 Still I maundered and moped around, unwilling to re- 
 turn and take up work again and still cursing myself for 
 staying. I was vaguely dissatisfied with everything, and,
 
 254 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 as ever, totally unable to put my finger on the cause of 
 my trouble. I was really tired of this "cream puff" diet. 
 I partly appreciated this but was unwilling to admit it. 
 I tried to muster up courage to face the winter at the 
 offices, persuaded myself that I had succeeded, and went 
 back. I stayed for an hour Marks was out and then 
 fled inglorious'ly before he returned. . . . 
 
 Worthington says that I was so tired of loafing that 
 I needed a vacation. Perhaps he is right. . . . 
 
 I drifted about in this state of mind for over a week, 
 like a boy who knows that he is hopelessly late for school 
 and hopes that something will turn up that will prevent 
 his going at all A fire, a runaway horse anything. I 
 became pathetically eager for excuses to postpone my re- 
 turn to work. I started canvases which I knew would 
 never be finished. The Ledyards left suddenly and I saw 
 to the hauling out of their boat and was glad of the 
 chance. That killed two days. I seized on other petty 
 excuses and finally began to manufacture my own. I 
 found fault with the grading about the new house and 
 planned to have the eastern slope altered. I even engaged 
 teamsters. Then I met Cadberry. 
 
 Sudden changes in society bring hitherto unnoticed 
 persons to the surface. I hadn't noticed Cadberry all 
 summer, neither had I missed him, for that matter. He 
 nodded an abstracted greeting as I entered the deserted 
 lounge of the club, then resumed the reading of his paper. 
 Somehow or other I was conscious of a feeling that he 
 shouldn't be there ; only after we had read in silent com- 
 panionship for an hour did I remember his exploration 
 plans. 
 
 "You're back, then," I said, as he folded and refolded 
 his paper, making ineffectual efforts to straighten it. 
 Evidently his absence had failed to improve his temper.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 255 
 
 "Back? Haven't been away," he grunted and fixed 
 me with a cold blue eye. 
 
 I became explanatory. "You were going exploring 
 Mexico, was it? I've missed you." 
 
 He smiled grayly. "I suspect that you have been busy 
 with other matters. I've been here all summer summer's 
 no time for tropical exploration." His manner added, 
 "Any fool would know that." 
 
 But I was persistent. "Then this winter " I left 
 
 the thread hanging in the air; he plucked at it as one 
 plucks at an irritating spider web. 
 
 "Sabbatical year," he said shortly. "Grahame takes 
 the department. And Mexico is off the map, as far as I'm 
 concerned." 
 
 I caught the headlines of his paper something about 
 the Madero-Huerta squabble, if I remember rightly. 
 
 "I know," I said sympathetically. "The pot's always 
 boiling down there, isn't it ? What were you planning this 
 time? Aztec stuff, or I made a prodigious leap 
 
 of memory " some of the Toltec ruins? I know that 
 they're thickly scattered all over the place." 
 
 "Not much left besides ruins in Mexico in a few years," 
 he said with a show of interest. "No, not Toltec Mayan. 
 . . . But I had no idea that you were interested in that." 
 
 "I excavated a ruin once," I answered, with fond mem- 
 ories of Brown Brothers. "Tell me about it unless you've 
 something else to do." 
 
 "Do?" he echoed. "I'm stuck here for the winter. But 
 if you're really interested ! 
 
 "I am," I assured him. I was in a state of mind where 
 anything is interesting. 
 
 "Why then " he said, and cleared his throat in a 
 
 class room manner which took me back fifteen years. 
 
 He started by explaining in words of one syllable just 
 what he had intended to search for he adopted an air of 
 apology as he talked, and "as you know," answered by a 
 nod from me, was a frequent punctuation of his discourse.
 
 256 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 _ 
 
 The Mayan race, it seemed, had once occupied the region 
 about Yucatan ; they had built cities without number, pal- 
 aces, temples, pyramids. Then, going the way of all flesh, 
 they had left the cities behind. In the course of time the 
 cities had become ruins. And ruins were Cadberry's meat. 
 
 "They built Palenque, Mitla, Copan," he explained. 
 "The wilderness is full of them cities which were ruins 
 when Cortez landed, cities contemporaneous with Car- 
 thage, the cradles of a vast and vanished civilization." 
 
 "Ah !" I said intelligently. I had been in Baltimore af- 
 ter the fire, and I am afraid that my ideas of ruined cities 
 were not exactly those which Cadberry intended to pro- 
 duce. I found later that a true ruined city is nothing 
 more than occasional and unexpected little hills and 
 mounds and embankments, mixed with broken pottery and 
 shattered stone. 
 
 He went on and became more technical as he proceeded. 
 He grew lyrical; liquid names filled with soft sibilants 
 tumbled in procession from his tongue. He made mention 
 of those who had already explored this Mayan country 
 Stephens, Waldeck, Dupaix and the others ; my in- 
 terest grew as he went on. In broad, vivid strokes he 
 sketched the country; interminable forests, rivers among 
 great hills and the ruins of a great past scattered through 
 it all with a prodigal hand. One of my boyhood inspira- 
 tions had been Du Chaillu's Gorilla Country and an ac- 
 count of Stanley's search for Livingstone; I raked to- 
 gether what fragments of memory I could and managed 
 to make a decent show of intelligence. 
 
 "But you say that these places have already been ex- 
 plored," I objected. 
 
 "Not all," he responded, and pulled down the great 
 coast chart on the wall. He traced a river with a slender 
 forefinger. "Along here are the known ruins, behind Ta- 
 basco." 
 
 "Hot place," I jested feebly.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 257 
 
 "No-o," he considered soberly, "save in the summer 
 months, you know." 
 
 He went on to outline his abandoned plans, forgetting 
 for the moment that they were abandoned. He indicated 
 a great branching river, entering the Gulf of Campeche 
 at Frontera ; along the left branch were the known ruins. 
 He explained that one obtained river boats and guides 
 at San Juan Bautista rather a common excursion, I 
 gathered from his tone. But along the other branch, lead- 
 ing off to the eastward ah ! He sighed and realized that 
 he talked of impossibilities. 
 
 "Somewhere in there," he said wistfully, "lies the solu- 
 tion of this entire Mayan problem. This river, the Usu- 
 macinta, leads off into the heart of an unknown region 
 archeologically unexplored, a virgin field. Along the 
 affluents of the Usumacinta there lies no one knows what. 
 They lead back into the hills. . . . There is a tradition 
 of a great aboriginal city ; it has been seen at times. From 
 a distance. . . . Gleaming walls. . . . You don't know 
 how such things appeal to me, Coffin." 
 
 "I think I know," I answered. I had once planned to 
 explore the upper Amazon but Dick wouldn't go. "And 
 you had planned ?" 
 
 "It's no use now," he said wearily. "These damnable 
 tupenny revolutions! The country's not safe, you know. 
 I had planned to have a go at that region, engage boats 
 at Frontera, go as far as possible bah !" 
 
 He pulled angrily at the map and it snapped up on its 
 rollers with a clatter. "I've planned all summer," he went 
 on, "hoping that this trouble would be over. But it seems 
 to grow worse. . . . I'm not a British citizen now only 
 a Gringo. I'd have a try at it even now, but Mrs. Cad- 
 berry " 
 
 I understood. "But let's have another look at the map. 
 Why not try it from Belize? Or Guatemala? Isn't that 
 nearer?" 
 
 "In actual miles yes. But impossible. There are no
 
 258 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 streams no roads. No. The only way is up river. 
 That or none." 
 
 He subsided into disgruntled silence. I thought. The 
 first faint glimmerings of a plan became apparent to me. 
 
 "You'd need a launch," I considered. "Something on 
 the whaleboat plan, shallow draught and yet a good car- 
 rier. I think JEvans has something on that line. And 
 then to get there where was it? Frontera? Why not 
 the Shadow?" 
 
 "Eh?" He looked up and removed his glasses with a 
 fumbling hand. 
 
 "Why not the Shadow?" I repeated. "We could run up 
 river beyond your town and then start. Send the Shadow 
 out to either Havana or Kingston. Or cache her some- 
 where. Go up river as far as we could, then come back. 
 Well?" 
 
 He squinted at me nervously. "You mean it?" 
 
 "I'm about due for a sabbatical year myself," I an- 
 swered. 
 
 From that moment I was completely in Cadberry's toils. 
 I remember that he did a little war dance of joy about 
 the lounge and then tore off to New Haven to crow over 
 Grahame and get together what things he would need. He 
 came back the next day; we took the Shadow down to 
 New York, laid up at a smelly pier on the East River and 
 started a whirlwind campaign of preparation. 
 
 Cadberry surprised me. He became a small dynamo 
 of energy, deciding matters in a summary manner of 
 which I had never believed him capable. I became a mere 
 supernumerary; a person who was perhaps a necessary 
 part of the general scheme of things but whose sugges- 
 tions were sometimes absurd and sometimes childish but 
 never well made. My idea of preparation was to lay in 
 a stock of calico and beads; "to trade with the natives,"
 
 FLOOD TIDE 259 
 
 I explained vaguely. Kavenaugh had no suggestions be- 
 yond plenty of tobacco and an extra pair of boots. We 
 were both shoved one side without ceremony. We were 
 trusted to a certain extent, however; Cadberry allowed 
 us to open the cases as they came down the dock. 
 
 Within a week we were fully prepared and ready to 
 move on. Evans remodeled a launch that he had in stock 
 and made it suitable for our purposes. We shipped extra 
 gasoline tanks and stores. It was a week of hurry and 
 bustle, with Cadberry dominating the whole, his pockets 
 bulging with odds and ends, a greasy old cap of Kave- 
 naugh's on the back of his head and eternally engaged 
 in a fumbling conflict with his glasses. 
 
 Stowell came down, criticized us openly, and envied us 
 in secret. 
 
 "All very complete," he said, surveying our prepara- 
 tions. "I see only one thing wrong." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "You've no business going. In fact, there's every rea- 
 son why you shouldn't go." 
 
 "For example?" 
 
 He hesitated oddly. "The Stores is too big a thing for 
 one man to swing. And you know it," he said finally. "If 
 you want a change of work well, our offer is still open." 
 
 I was sulkily silent. 
 
 "Go ahead, then," he sighed, and switched to practical 
 advice on the subject of woolen socks. 
 
 Marks was even worse. He argued. 
 
 "Look here," he exploded, as I appeared. "When you 
 coming in?" 
 
 "When I get back." 
 
 He stared. "Back? From where?" 
 
 I told him. Then a whirlwind of questions chiefly 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I want to," I said doggedly. 
 
 "All right, all right. Stay as long as you want. Stay 
 forever." I marched out, secretly pleased at getting off
 
 260 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 so easily. But later Marks came down to the Shadow 
 and was unexpectedly agreeable. I was ashamed of myself 
 and tried to explain. 
 
 "No matter," he said with an expansive wave. "I 
 wouldn't understand, anyway. Guess I can get along 
 alone I've had practice enough. But one thing; I'm 
 going ahead. I've got plans. No use holding up every- 
 thing because of your crazy ideas." 
 
 "Go as far as you like," I assented. 
 
 "I will," he promised. 
 
 And, to do him justice, he did. . . . 
 
 During the latter part of the week I found time to run 
 up river and see Lauretta. 'I had written her an account 
 of our project, and, as I had expected, she also disap- 
 proved of the entire affair. We walked I have an im- 
 pression of towers in the background and drifts of rust- 
 ling leaves underfoot and discussed the matter in a 
 fragmentary fashion. 
 
 "What I don't like," she explained, "is that I can't 
 go." 
 
 Obviously she couldn't. 
 
 "And I can't even write to you," she complained fi- 
 nally. But her principal objection was that she was go- 
 ing to miss something. 
 
 I give you no more than a brief outline of that winter 
 and spring; Cadberry has already treated it fully in his 
 book; I feel that it is his story and not mine. This is 
 really the second book in which I have figured, you see, 
 although in Cadberry's I play but a small and unimpor- 
 tant part. My name appears once in the preface and twice 
 in the main portion of his volume. Mention is made of 
 my discovery of the colossal statue of Votan, the myth- 
 ical founder of the Mayan race; happily Cadberry knew 
 nothing of the abject feeling of terror which came over me
 
 FLOOD TIDE 261 
 
 as I became aware of old Votan leering most horribly 
 above me in the dimness of the jungle, leaning drunkenly 
 aslant against a great tree. One of the illustrations in 
 Cadberry's book shows Kavenaugh and myself, sweat 
 stained and bearded, standing on either side of the hid- 
 eously carved stone. 
 
 There was an absurdly piratic tone about the whole 
 venture, from the time we stole around Sandy Hook in the 
 twilight until we returned the next June. Cadberry stayed 
 below, heroically alternating between his notebooks and 
 a basin, until we passed Hatteras. We made but one call 
 on the way down, to renew our supply of gasoline, and 
 then, skirting the Florida Keys, we struck out into the 
 Gulf. 
 
 We took our time crossing the Gulf, changing our 
 course frequently as distant thumb-prints of smoke blurred 
 the taut horizon. We had no desire for unsolicited pub- 
 licity. We unshipped the Shadow's masts, lashed them 
 on deck, and went over the entire superstructure with a 
 coat of dull green. Bergson had argued us into accept- 
 ing the plan which we had considered dubiously. 
 
 "You find a creek, a bayou, somewhere," he said, "and 
 run her in. I will stay. Otherwise if I dake her to 
 Havana how should I know when to return. And there 
 would be comblications inevidably." 
 
 We spent an anxious three days while he and Kave- 
 naugh went up river in the tender looking for a suitable 
 place of concealment ; during the day we stood out beyond 
 sight of land, and at night crept in close to the low shore 
 and showed lights. They came aboard the third night, 
 and under their guidance we stole silently up the river, 
 hugging the opposite shore as we passed Frontera and 
 barely avoiding a collision with a native boat as we swung 
 out into midstream again. Once we hung on a sandbar, 
 but the wash of the river freed us and we went on. We 
 reached the branching of the river and the stars wheeled 
 overhead as we bore to the left. Toward morning we
 
 262 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 pumped out the last of the water ballast and headed into 
 the narrow channel which Kavenaugh had discovered. 
 A sluggish stream, it meandered about among the over- 
 hanging trees; as we went on hanging vines dragged 
 slowly across the deck and fell in festoons behind us. In 
 the dim morning light it was like sailing through the heart 
 of the forest 6n a heavy dew. Finally the channel led 
 into a shallow, green-walled opening among the trees and 
 in a subsidiary channel leading from this we hid the 
 Shadow, with her bow wedged between two trees and a 
 heavy curtain of creepers veiling her stern. 
 
 For two months we struggled upstream in the launch, 
 traveling principally by night until we left the flat lower 
 reaches of the river and then pushing on more boldly. 
 We met other travelers, a mysterious German connected 
 with chicle, a native boat loaded with skins, a drive of 
 mahogany logs, and for three days we traveled in com- 
 pany with a rubber prospector who spoke wistfully and 
 feelingly of Cleveland-Sixth-City. Cadberry resurrected 
 his English accent and was vaguely representative of a 
 London rubber company. We parted company at last, 
 laden with messages and directions to other rubber seek- 
 ers further upstream valuable information, for we took 
 pains to avoid them. Beyond Santa Rosa we left the 
 Usumacinta, turned into the Rio de la Pasion, and went 
 on through fast narrowing banks of greenery into the 
 heart of the unnamed hills. 
 
 The Rio de la Pasion proved a disappointment. I may 
 be wrong, but it is my belief that Cadberry had expected 
 to find it a New World Rhine, with ruined battlements 
 and towers frowning down on every turn. That, at least, 
 was my anticipation. But whatever he expected, we found 
 nothing. We loitered along, exploring every side stream, 
 making fruitless excursions back from the stream, and 
 finding nothing. Cadberry grew daily more irritable. 
 Our sole discovery was an abandoned rubber camp which 
 classed as a ruin but was scarcely of sufficient antiquity
 
 FLOOD TIDE 263 
 
 to interest Cadberry. This was a few miles below the 
 second rapids we had ascended the first series only after 
 three days' killing labor. The second series proved im- 
 passable for our heavy launch. 
 
 We sat on the water-worn rocks, the launch pulled out 
 on a half moon of yellow sand below us, our ears filled 
 with the strident roar of the falls. Cadberry broke his 
 seventh pair of glasses and swore as the fragments tinkled 
 and glittered to the sand below. 
 
 "Well?" I asked. 
 
 "I hate to turn back," he said fretfully and was silent 
 for a moment. "Why not strike out cross country 
 circle around and come back? We've found nothing." 
 
 "How far?" 
 
 "Until we do find something," he squeaked above the 
 tumult of falling water. "Are you on?" 
 
 "If Kav and Karl and John agree," I shouted back. 
 
 He strode off, gesticulating to himself, toward the 
 three men sprawled about the fire on the beach. Kave- 
 naugh had fallen overboard that morning and made a 
 weird figure, clothed in a tattered and flapping undershirt. 
 I sat and watched the circling clots of yellow foam in the 
 pool below. We couldn't very well go back empty handed. 
 
 VI 
 
 From that point on we had one unending struggle with 
 the passive resistance of the wilderness, over ranges, 
 through valleys deep in tangled underbrush and primeval 
 forests, across streams and past lakes hidden deep in 
 abrupt valleys. 
 
 Whatever taste I possessed for the romance of explo- 
 ration was glutted. Certain impressions are burned deep 
 in my memory of "boots boots boots boots movin'
 
 264 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 up and down again"; of stumbling on and watching the 
 sweat stains on Karl's back merge and blend and blot to- 
 gether; of pack-straps cutting into my own back and 
 shoulders until sensation vanished in a blissful numbness. 
 Exploration ! I could have got the same effect by carry- 
 ing a truck load of mixed goods through a mosquito in- 
 fested blueberry swamp with scattered ridges of loose 
 stone to break the heat-drenched monotony. 
 
 We found outcroppings of coal and metal; for nearly 
 a month we traveled in sight of one vast mountain of 
 iron ore, rearing rusty shoulders above its cloak of green. 
 At the foot of this mountain, or rather on its western 
 slope, lies the mystical, mythical city whose existence Cad- 
 berry had doubted. And rightly, too, for instead of a 
 city we found a broad, filmy waterfall, whose gleaming 
 in the sun might well be mistaken for the glisten of silver 
 walls in the blue distance. It was a great disappointment 
 to Kavenaugh; he had taken the distant murmur of the 
 falls for the roar of a great city and had entertained 
 visions of bottled beer. 
 
 But we found cities three of them as Cadberry says 
 at great length. Quite properly, he named them after 
 Mayan gods ; Kavenaugh, more rationally and perhaps 
 with memories of Mark Twain, called them Jacksonville, 
 West Jacksonville, and Jacksonville Junction. As cities 
 they were lamentable failures ; as ruins they lacked noth- 
 ing. Cadberry dug and excavated and measured the un- 
 sightly heaps and mounds and pyramids to his heart's 
 content. My chief recollections of this most successful 
 part of our trip are connected with the cenote which we 
 found at Jacksonville, a shaft leading down among the 
 ruins by dim, worn steps to an underground pool, dim, 
 cool and soul-satisfying. 
 
 Near West Jacksonville we found the statue of 
 Votan; we stayed at Jacksonville Junction nearly two 
 months.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 265 
 
 vn 
 
 We had spent a week about the Junction, prying into 
 the ruins and making little side excursions; a week of 
 torrential showers, marching one on the heels of the 
 other, with flashes of vivid sunshine between. We alter- 
 nated between complete wetness and soggy steaminess. 
 Karl and John played cards and swore that they had 
 rather be drowned at sea than on land. Kavenaugh and 
 I found our only comfort in the thought that further 
 discomfort was impossible. Cadberry was so engrossed 
 in making maps and taking notes that nothing short of 
 a cloudburst would have attracted his attention. Through 
 rain and through sunshine I remember his twinkling little 
 legs trotting about, for all the world like a busy little 
 fox terrier in a bone yard. 
 
 We rested at noon one day, between showers, beside a 
 pool with broad water lilies starring its surface; myster- 
 ious subsurface movements set the broad leaves rocking 
 and the rushes nodding and swaying as though moved 
 by some breeze imperceptible to our grosser senses. There 
 was an elusive glimpse of the great red-flanked mountain 
 in the misty background; in the middle distance Kave- 
 naugh fried bacon and an intermittent crackle and rustle 
 told of Karl seeking dry wood for the fire. I sniff, and 
 smell again the queer blend of tropical rankness and ap- 
 petizing bacon. 
 
 Cadberry elucidated some abstruse theory of his some 
 connection which he had found between Eastern and 
 Western theology. I rested drowsily and listened to his 
 monologue. 
 
 " 'Just and true is the Wheel, swerving not a hair,' " he 
 said with an air of quotation. " 'Swerving not a hair.' " 
 
 "Mayan?" I queried. 
 
 "Thibetan. . . . Yes. . . . Not a bad idea. Chris- 
 tianity has much the same idea 'as ye measure.' Univer- 
 sal, spontaneous, perhaps, rather than showing a connec-
 
 266 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 tion. In everything coming back reverting to type. 
 Wilderness cultivation wilderness again. 'Just and 
 true.' Hmmmm." 
 
 The outlines of a lecture shaped themselves in discon- 
 nected fragments ; he fumbled for the little red notebook. 
 He seemed unduly excited over his discovery; a tiny red 
 spot burned in either cheek. 
 
 "The cause is a result the result, a cause," he went 
 on, scratching notes. "The circles the spheres. Circles." 
 
 "Cubist art," I reminded him. 
 
 There was a whir of wings overhead and a minor shower 
 of drops pattered on the leaves of his book. He stared 
 at the crinkling blots. 
 
 "D-dammit!" he said querulously, and poked at them 
 with his finger. "They're not circles ; they should be 
 ... all broken." He stared for a moment, the red flush 
 burned higher on his cheeks and the book slid rustling 
 down into the grass. 
 
 "Ah!" he said finally. 
 
 I followed his intent gaze out over the little pool ; a fish 
 had leaped and a slow circular spread of ripples broke 
 the clear surface. 
 
 He rose slowly, staggered, caught his balance, and 
 started down the slope to the pool, breaking into a sham- 
 bling trot as the bank fell away more rapidly. I watched 
 him idly, expecting him to stop at the edge; he went on, 
 and was knee deep before I realized that something out 
 of the ordinary was happening. 
 
 "Cadberry!" I shouted. "You fool!" 
 
 His arms spread wide and waved in flapping circles as 
 the sludgy bottom caught at his feet; he gesticulated 
 wildly as he waded deeper; finally his momentum toppled 
 him over and he disappeared in a wild splashing and wav- 
 ing of weed tangled legs. 
 
 I shouted again and had an impression of Kavenaugh 
 dropping his bacon in the fire and coming toward me. 
 I had the start of him ; I remember shifting my stride as
 
 FLOOD TIDE 267 
 
 I ran, calculating the distance to the edge and praying 
 for a solid take-off. "Dead trees," I thought, and had 
 a flashing vision of spitting myself on a sunken branch. 
 I remember striking the water in a long flat dive and 
 coming up abruptly with the gagging taste of dead and 
 rotting vegetation in my throat. I struck out after 
 Cadberry and found boots and puttees a poor swimming 
 costume. 
 
 He was swimming blindly when I overtook him, his 
 head raised high and his threshing arms beating the water 
 into an amber froth. He fought weakly and scratchily, 
 like a blind kitten, as I grappled with him from behind; 
 I managed to tow him within reach of Kavenaugh, stand- 
 ing waist deep among the rushes, and between us we car- 
 ried him up the bank. 
 
 "The fever," puffed Kavenaugh, looking down on Cad- 
 berry's flushed and streaming face. He shouted for 
 Karl; an answering hail and a crackle of branches re- 
 sponded. "He was fair rotten with it and never yipped. 
 All in a heap. . . . Back to camp as quick as God'll 
 let us." 
 
 We got him back, finally, on an improvised stretcher, 
 babbling thickly of circles and planetary systems and 
 the potter's wheel, clutching weakly at the dripping un- 
 derbrush as we forced our way along. He had one mo- 
 ment of lucidity. 
 
 "Got it bad," he croaked, fixing me with a bright blue 
 eye. "Felt it coming never say die. It runs in circles, 
 Coff; in three-day cycles had it before." He drifted 
 off into inarticulate mutterings. "I'll pull through," he 
 said suddenly. . . . 
 
 I was far from confident; Cadberry had resisted for 
 so long, had gone on working when he should have gone 
 to bed, that the disease attacked him with doubled vigor 
 when he finally gave in. Kavenaugh and I tried every 
 remedy of which we had ever heard ; among them we must 
 have found the right one either that or Cadberry's con-
 
 268 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 stitution triumphed over both disease and our blunder- 
 ing doctoring. He slid down hill for a time, hesitated, 
 and then started slowly to recover. . . . 
 
 vm 
 
 The long nights among the ruins of Jacksonville Junc- 
 tion stand out clearest of all my memories of that time. 
 We had camped in the very midst of the ruins, in what 
 Cadberry has indicated on his map as "Casa Number 
 Three," the most complete ruin which we had found 
 or rather the most incomplete, for it was the only one 
 with even a vestige of walls. It was a vast ruin of a pal- 
 ace, roofless, and with great trees thrusting up above the 
 low walls. I remember the gleam of the firelight through 
 the shattered doorway as I sat outside; there was an occa- 
 sional sound from Cadberry, in his hammock under the 
 rough shelter which we had constructed between the tree 
 trunks; I recall the silver gleam of the moonlight on the 
 fantastic carving of the great fa9ade, the bushes growing 
 in crevices and casting dusky hieroglyphic shadows over 
 the carven stone. And all about was that silence of the 
 forest which is not a silence at all, but a calm filled with 
 rustlings and murmurs of unseen life. 
 
 This scene is impressed on my memory by repetition; 
 night after night I sat there or walked up and down, 
 smoking and thinking. With the suspension of physical 
 activity came a recrudescence of my old self-questioning. 
 I stood apart, and criticized myself for the first time in 
 years. I was isolated, cut off from everything which 
 had been my life. Between the present and the careless, 
 self-indulgent life about the Arrowrock there was an 
 immeasurable interval. All that seemed years away. Busi- 
 ness, The Stores, Marks all were figures of another life, 
 incredibly remote and distant. I contrasted, weighed 
 one against the other, and finally came to some sort of a 
 decision.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 269 
 
 I came to see that in breaking off and running away 
 from business I had really tried to escape from myself, 
 not from The Stores and its accompaniment of petty 
 and narrowing vexations. I had sought refuge in being 
 different; my real refuge lay in becoming like others. 
 Being different was the cause, not the cure, of my trou- 
 ble. . . . 
 
 I wonder now how much Lauretta had to do with this 
 decision. I know that by subtle gradations she came to 
 occupy more and more of my thoughts. She became daily 
 more desirable. I began to imagine things, after my usual 
 fashion ; to remember and build up possibilities on 
 what I remembered. For the first time I had no doubts 
 of my love for her. It was as sincere and real an emo- 
 tion as any I -have ever experienced. I wanted with all 
 my soul to go back, and be married, and call the brake- 
 man on the 8.17 by his first name. Every one whose way 
 differs at all from the ordinary feels at times this envy 
 of the common lot, this desire to be ordinary and hum- 
 drum and contented. . . . 
 
 I would go back, I concluded. No more running away 
 from work, shirking responsibility, clutching at trifles. 
 I had taken that course long enough. Self-indulgence 
 breeds self-contempt. I became articulate. 
 
 "You idiot!" I accused myself, with the steady stars 
 and the sibilant forest as witnesses. "This running about 
 trying to escape yourself ! 
 
 "Fussing around. . . . Inconsequential little voyages 
 from nowhere to nowhere ; persuading yourself that you're 
 doing something. And doing nothing. . . . Doddering 
 a combination of child and old man. . . . Sand castles. 
 
 "Simply drifting down here making a pack-beast of 
 yourself. And it's not even fun; just killing time. Let- 
 ting Marks do it all. And you had dreams once." 
 
 Then a pause in my pacing up and down. I began to 
 dream again, to futurize. I remembered Marks and his 
 plans, wondered faintly what they were and hoped that
 
 270 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 he wouldn't make too great an ass of himself. I planned 
 for myself later I captured Cadberry's red notebook 
 and jotted them down; they puzzled him greatly when 
 he came to decipher his notes. With a quickened interest 
 I thought of Stowell and his persistent efforts to interest 
 me in his work. 
 
 "Something in it," I concluded. "At least that wouldn't 
 be pandering to yourself." 
 
 IX 
 
 Cadberry was soon strong enough to move these wiry 
 little wisps of men are hard to kill and we set out north- 
 ward in easy stages. As near as we could determine by 
 the map we were midway between the second rapids and 
 Flores. We went on ; anything was better than a return. 
 Late in April we reached Lake Peten Oritza, making the 
 final stages of the journey with Cadberry in a crawling 
 bullock cart, hired at the first village we entered. We 
 went winding down through the mountains, the cart lurch- 
 ing and complaining over the gullies and bowlder strewn 
 torrent beds called roads only by the utmost stretch 
 of the imagination and a brown skinned mestizo, all 
 smile and hat brim, driving the oxen. 
 
 "Scandalous, I call him," said Kavenaugh. "Like a 
 bloody Chink, with his shirt tail outside his panties." 
 
 At Flores a little jewel of a town, set on an island 
 in the lake we lodged at a house which the cure found 
 for us, a house with blank walls facing the street, a great 
 grill of rusty iron work in the dim arch of the gate and 
 a little walled garden fronting on the lake. Father Jose 
 also found us a cook, a voluble old soul with two teeth 
 and the skill of an angelic alchemist. We ate and rested 
 and shaved every day and gradually came to feel almost 
 civilized again. Cadberry went through his convalescence 
 in a great square dusky room above stairs, a room with 
 shaded windows framing the distant panorama of the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 271 
 
 mountains and the reflected light of the lake shimmering 
 on the ceiling. He was weaker than he cared to admit. 
 
 But he found a companion soul in Father Jose and 
 became reconciled to the slow mending process. The cure 
 was an authority on Mayan legends and archeology; he 
 filled out the gaps in Cadberry's information and in re- 
 turn received a broader view of the entire subject. He 
 and Cadberry made a queer pair, the cure with his great 
 bony shoulders and rough hewn Yankee face, and Cad- 
 berry, white beneath his brown beard, both leaning over 
 rough maps spread on the counterpane. 
 
 "But you are tired, pobrecito," he would exclaim peni- 
 tently. "My selfishness; you know so much that I do 
 not. Till to-morrow, my son." Then, despite Cad- 
 berry's protestations of strength, he would sweep up the 
 scattered maps and papers and stride out with his long, 
 plunging noiseless stride. Cadberry would fume and 
 fret for a while and then fall asleep. . . . 
 
 In Flores I made one discovery which outranks even 
 Votan. In my wanderings about the town I stumbled 
 on a store, set in an obscure corner of the plaza, the most 
 abject apology for a store imaginable. An awning of 
 grain sacks protected the front ; within was a shelf, dark- 
 ness and things which scuttled underfoot and squeaked. 
 And, in splendid isolation on the shelf, flanked by sup- 
 porters of nameless goods, stood a can of Store stuff, 
 buff binder, black elephant and all. I stared at it in 
 amazement, read the label, recognized it as one of an un- 
 successful lot which we had disposed of at auction. I 
 bought it, as one rescues a friend from captivity, bore it 
 home and gloated over it. I became fretful and worried 
 and in a hurry to get back. . . . 
 
 We left Flores regretfully and set off in a hired native 
 boat, across the lake and down the San Pedro, another 
 tributary of the Usumacinta. It was vastly different 
 from our ascent of the river; we went along boldly, slip- 
 ping between high banks, with Cadberry, very weak and
 
 272 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 white, working away on his notes under a canopy. One 
 thing alone marred the journey; one of the boatmen 
 brought with him an accursed instrument of two strings 
 and we had Sobra las Olas for a steady diet. 
 
 We found the Shadow very foul and weed-grown, 
 matted with vines and creepers until she seemed part of 
 the forest. Bergson, bearded now like Santa Glaus, 
 peered out through a loop hole in the vines at the stern 
 in answer to our hail. "I hat become almost tired of 
 reading," he admitted huskily, in answer to our questions. 
 "Yes, everything is all right." No, he was not particu- 
 larly glad to see us. He had got along fairly well; he 
 even seemed reluctant to leave. "There is one long devil 
 of a cat who trinks at a spring up there," he remarked 
 as we hacked away at the clinging growth. "Every night 
 he comes down to trink and goes away laughing at me 
 deep down in his belly. And every night I have waited for 
 him mit a rifle. Now," and he sighed regretfully, "we 
 shall never meet. He would have looked nice on the bar- 
 lor floor at home." 
 
 And Kavenaugh Kavenaugh dove past Bergson and 
 down the hatch to the engine room, and from time to 
 time the sound of his low and joyous profanity floated up 
 to us. All that day and the better part of the night he 
 worked over them, scraping off the thick layer of gudgeon 
 with which he had smeared them, testing and readjusting 
 and getting himself most gloriously coated with grease. 
 Finally, with the help of the crew of our river boat, we 
 wrenched free from the little inlet and wound down the 
 tortuous channel to the main stream. Here we paid off 
 the boatmen, loaded them down with what supplies we 
 could spare, and sent them off upstream, happy. Over 
 the Waves floated back to us, grew fainter and fainter, 
 and finally dwindled away to silence as they crept around 
 a turn of the river and vanished. Thank God we had 
 heard the last of that ! 
 
 We went out as we had entered in the night ; past the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 873 
 
 sleeping town and out to sea. All the way across the Gulf 
 we stopped at Key West to telegraph ahead Bergson 
 made up for his long silence by talking a steady stream. 
 In New York, topping the immense pile of mail which 
 had accumulated during my absence, I found a telegram 
 from Lauretta. It was then late in June, and the An- 
 nersleys had gone down to one of the Maine coast towns 
 to start the summer. I was to come down in the Shadow 
 and join them, I gathered. She had so much to tell me. 
 
 So I came back, filled with this resolution to turn over 
 a new leaf. It was good to be back again. I was tired 
 of living as I had lived, tired of loafing and persuading 
 myself that I was contented. I wanted to get into har- 
 ness again. For the first time in years I found myself 
 looking forward eagerly to the prospect of going back to 
 the offices. I was in a Walt Whitmanesque mood, happy 
 to be jostled and shoved about the sidewalks, envying the 
 passers their part in the vast comedy of labor. I stopped 
 on street corners and watched them; ceaseless streams 
 of people, happy in doing something and happily unaware 
 that they were happy. I had been away for years, ex- 
 iled. I returned to find nothing changed. 
 
 There was one change. This was in Marks. He had 
 grown sallow and thinner during the winter, not only 
 thinner but actually shrunken. Two great creases had 
 appeared on either side of his mouth, drawing down the 
 corners ; the skin of his cheeks hugged close to the bone 
 beneath. His face was that of a distance runner, drawn 
 and distorted and strained. 
 
 He met me at the door of the inner office, a great sheaf 
 of papers in his hand. 
 
 "Well!" he said, and stared at me. 
 
 "You're not looking well, Marks," I said.
 
 274 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "I been sick," he said briefly and turned back into the 
 office. 
 
 I gave him a brief outline of our trip and hinted awk- 
 wardly at my new resolution. 
 
 "So you're back for good?" 
 
 "Not yet," I qualified. "Give me one more month. I'll 
 be back not later than the first of August." 
 
 He hesitated, opened his mouth, and then made a weary 
 gesture of assent. 
 
 "That's a good date," he said.
 
 CHAPTER THE THIRD 
 
 MARKS' attitude puzzled me faintly. He had been ob- 
 viously surprised to see me, almost disconcerted. Then 
 he had been relieved when I had asked for another month. 
 And yet not relieved; he had made some further remark 
 about the first of August which I hadn't caught. I puz- 
 zled over it and then forgot it. I had something else 
 to think about. I was glad to be back, pleased with my 
 determination to return to work. The first of August 
 would see the beginning of a new era for me. 
 
 "I've got some good ideas," I had boasted. "This 
 month will give me a chance to work them up. Then we'll 
 make things hum." 
 
 "Good," he had commented. "I I'm beginning to find 
 that we need you." 
 
 Marks had his limitations, I thought. We all discov- 
 ered them, sooner or later. 
 
 This mood of self-satisfaction persisted with me all 
 that week; the Shadow was hauled out at Evans' and I 
 bustled about and sang little songs to myself and con- 
 vinced myself that I was really a reformed man. It was 
 still with me when we turned northward toward Maine 
 and Lauretta. In fact, I have come to the conclusion that 
 despite my quibbling little fits of restlessness I was an 
 extraordinary self-satisfied person during all these later 
 years. This was merely the flowering of the mood. 
 
 I remember this particular mental state as I remember 
 my Olympian-mooded decisions regarding the world in 
 general during my first year at Hatherly's in Boston, as 
 something connected with another man than myself. I 
 had not changed to any great extent, you see. Then I 
 was satisfied with the result of my musings on the world 
 275
 
 276 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 in general as seen in the light of my young wisdom; now 
 I was satisfied with my deliberations on that center of 
 the universe, myself. That was the sole change ; my hori- 
 zon had narrowed, self had been substituted for the world. 
 I wonder if we all make this substitution as we grow older. 
 
 We had endless trouble with the motors as we went up 
 through the Sbund; they had given us a great deal of 
 bother as we came north from Frontera, but now they 
 seemed governed by some imp of perverseness. Off Cape 
 Cod they went back on us entirely, and for six hours 
 we lay rolling in a wicked welter of cross rips while Kave- 
 naugh toiled and grunted below; the long gleaming lines 
 of the barren dunes were very near when he finally got 
 them turning in a half-hearted manner. For once Kave- 
 naugh admitted that the problem was beyond his experi- 
 ence and at his suggestion we ran into Boston and had 
 the entire power plant overhauled. 
 
 We lay off Fort Point Channel for three days while 
 Kavenaugh and a fellow craftsman delved into the depths 
 of the motors in search of the trouble. This made an 
 annoying break in the course of events, not only because 
 I was eager to get on, but because it was an interruption. 
 I wanted to keep moving, to get busy at something, no 
 matter what. Finally I dug out a sheaf of reports which 
 Marks had given me and busied myself in catching up with 
 the progress of The Stores. 
 
 We sailed again on a gray, leaden day, the great gray 
 pinnacle of the Customs House looming ever fainter and 
 fainter behind us in the wreaths of mist which drifted in 
 from the lower harbor. We stole on at half speed Kave- 
 naugh was still unsatisfied with the performance of the 
 starboard motor out past the huddle of islands to the 
 right of the channel and so through Broad Sound to the 
 open sea. It was thicker outside; the shore faded and 
 vanished and the intermittent bellow from the harbor 
 came more faintly as the Shadow met the first long swells 
 and turned northward through the wet grayness. I went
 
 FLOOD TIDE 277 
 
 below and took up Marks' tabulations and records again. 
 
 An hour two hours ; I lost track of time in my en- 
 deavors to regain my grasp on the course of events. I 
 made the discovery that the records ended with January 
 Marks' omission, no doubt. Gradually I became 
 aware of a change in our motion. The hum and throb of 
 the motors had died away and in the stead of this regular 
 beat of sound came the chuckle of the waves as they 
 slapped the side and gurgled away under the counter. As 
 I listened, the Shadow slid up the back of one long roller, 
 and, tobogganing down the slope, dug her slim bow into 
 the next gray-back and sent a swirl of green water over 
 her deck, licking at the panes of the skylight overhead. 
 
 I found Kavenaugh on his knees before the silent mass 
 of machinery. He answered my question with a monosyl- 
 labic grunt and continued his search, choosing first one 
 and then another from the battery of tools beside him on 
 the floor. He squatted back on his heels and held up 
 for my inspection two bits of steel. 
 
 "Must have been cracked and out of alignment for a 
 long time," he said. "See the old break and the new one? 
 That's what threw the whole business on the fritz and 
 that Boston duck thought it was the timing." He spat 
 contemptuously in the grease pan and slowly erected him- 
 self. "Lucky I got her shut off." 
 
 "A shore job?" I asked. 
 
 He nodded. "Oxy-acetylene. Got to be welded, or a 
 new part. We can run back or where are we, Cap?" 
 Bergson had turned the idle wheel over to Karl and come 
 below to investigate. 
 
 With narrowed eyes Bergson considered. "Five miles 
 out, and at half-speed on the chart is a place called 
 Whitehaven which seems nearest. We could go back, but 
 with one propeller ' He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "There's a shop thei*e," Kavenaugh remembered. "I 
 got some babbit there when we stopped four years ago. 
 We'd better try it."
 
 278 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 He translated my nod of assent, and telling Bergson 
 to put her hard aport until we found how she acted under 
 a single thrust, started the remaining motor. 
 
 I hesitated for a moment and then followed Bergson 
 to the wheel house. This abrupt intrusion of Whitehaven 
 startled me; since my father's death I had scarcely 
 thought of the town so completely had it passed from 
 my memory that I had forgotten that we must pass by 
 on the way north. But here were the familiar outlines on 
 the chart, the long sweep of the beach, the jagged line 
 of the Point and even Buck's Island, a tiny dot to the 
 northward. I managed to work up quite a decent feeling 
 of reminiscence. Not such a bad place after all; we had 
 had good times there, Dick and myself and Bess. This 
 last thought came quite unpremeditated, as one thinks 
 of something dead and gone. There was no visualization ; 
 I merely remember that I remembered her. 
 
 The fog lifted slightly as we drew in near shore; 
 through a rift we caught a fugitive glimpse of the Point. 
 Behind it and across the harbor, the steeples and tips of 
 the trees on the hill stood out dim and flat against their 
 background of gray. Nearer at hand was the outer buoy 
 of the channel, dipping and curtseying in the long rollers 
 which made a hidden thunder on the rocks of the Point. 
 
 Then the mist closed in again, and in dead whiteness 
 we entered the harbor, feeling our way blindly along the 
 line of buoys. We anchored, and the rattle of the chain 
 echoed back to us from the wharves ; from the deck we 
 sensed rather than saw the nearness of the shore. Only 
 the dense black shadows below the wharves seemed real; 
 above that the town was plane on plane of shadowy illu- 
 sion, fading away into the wet, thin blankness of the 
 upper air. 
 
 Kavenaugh swung the tender outboard and lowered 
 her; I watched him idly, hesitating between two forces. 
 He bent over to twirl the flywheel, and, on an impulse, 
 I stepped in beside him.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 279 
 
 I left Kavenaugh at Harding's yards no longer Hard- 
 ing's, however, but with a great dingy sign of another 
 name across the street fence. Beside the weater-beaten, 
 unpainted shed, the womb from which so many trim sea- 
 children had gone forth, stood another building, a squat 
 structure of dusty brick filled with the clinking and clang- 
 ing of beaten iron and the spurting light of forges. 
 
 I went back to the landing where we had left the tender, 
 hesitated a moment at the entrance of the wharf, and then 
 turned off into the misty byways of the town The same 
 sleepy old town, unchanged never would change, I imag- 
 ined. It was a dead backwater in the stream of life; the 
 main current passed by and left it undisturbed. 
 
 I passed the store, unchanged save for broad plate 
 glass expanses replacing the many paned windows which 
 had been so hard to wash. The old sign was still over the 
 door, the letters raised now where wind and weather had 
 eaten away the unprotected wood between. Through the 
 window I caught a fleeting glimpse of Grigsby, scratching 
 his head and yawning over an account book at the old 
 desk. He turned toward the window and I went away 
 hastily. But for the drift of circumstance I might have 
 been in Grigsby's place myself. I wondered what he 
 would have made of the reports which I had just been 
 looking over. Poor Grigsby! I felt sorry for him; I 
 felt sorry for Whitehaven ; I wondered how long it would 
 take Kavenaugh to have his welding done. I found the 
 town depressing. 
 
 But still, I supposed that these moribund places had 
 their part in the general scheme of affairs. If nothing 
 more, they offered landmarks by which we could judge 
 our progress. I was faintly pleased at having found some 
 justification for Whitehaven's existence. 
 
 Almost instinctively my feet turned into the old famil- 
 iar way from the store to the house. Nothing had
 
 280 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 changed; the old houses stood just as much out of align- 
 ment as ever, turned sideways toward one another with the 
 air of exchanging furtive and disparaging comments on 
 the passerby. Here and there a new structure had el- 
 bowed in between or replaced one of the older houses. . . . 
 I imagined that the life of these people was still much the 
 same as when 1 had left; a petty round of neighborhood 
 gossip, a dull chronicle of births and deaths and little in- 
 consequentialities. 
 
 This stupidly intolerant mood lasted me all the way 
 up the hill and vanished only when I saw the old house 
 looming ahead through the mist. The horse chestnut tree 
 still stood, crownless, but with its lower branches masses 
 of sturdy green. Below it the roof shone faintly green 
 with moss. White curtains veiled the windows ; in my 
 time, I remembered, the curtains had always been a dusty 
 and neglected yellow. The house had been painted, too, 
 evidently Captain Waldron had taken good care of it. 
 There were the same old lilacs on either side of the front 
 walk, and it comes back to me, as a minor memory, that 
 the flower beds along the walk were wet and black with 
 the drifted fog on their eastern sides and brown and 
 crumbly and dry on the west. 
 
 I felt rather foolish as I lifted the knocker and sent 
 the echoes rumbling through the house. Perhaps Captain 
 Waldron had rented the house to some acid-voiced old 
 maid who would mistake me for a book agent. In my 
 mind I framed an excuse for my intrusion ; I would say 
 The door opened. 
 
 A slim figure with blue eyes beneath a piled mass of 
 coppery brown hair looked gravely out at me, one eye- 
 brow lifted in interrogation. I stammered, gasped, and 
 stood silent. 
 
 It was Elizabeth.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 281 
 
 m 
 
 Her look of questioning changed to a smile of recogni- 
 tion. She laughed, doubtless at my bewildered look. 
 
 "Hello!" she said frankly. "Come in." 
 
 She stepped back into the shadows of the narrow hall, 
 and by some strange and involuntary process my feet 
 carried me in. 
 
 "I had no idea you were in town," she said easily, clos- 
 ing the door and following me into the living room. 
 
 "Nor I you," said a voice which must have been mine. 
 
 "So I judged." I surrendered my hat, which I had 
 held in a clutch of desperation. She stepped back into 
 the hall to dispose of it. 
 
 "You find things changed greatly?" she asked, re- 
 turning. "You must; I've changed things a little here, 
 you see." 
 
 "Indeed you have. But the town hasn't changed 
 greatly from what I've seen of it." 
 
 "You've just arrived?" 
 
 "Within a half hour." 
 
 "Motor?" she queried. 
 
 "The Shadow no, not the old sixteen footer," as she 
 looked up abruptly. "This is another one." 
 
 "Oh! And you came directly here? Or did you exhaust 
 the possibilities of the town in half an hour?" 
 
 "Why " I seemed on the defensive. "It seemed the 
 natural thing to do, I suppose." 
 
 She nodded, and in some subtle manner I felt myself 
 under the unspoken indictment of always choosing the 
 most natural and easiest course. 
 
 Our talk slid off into banalities at this point the 
 weather and subjects of that sort which people discuss 
 for the purpose of filling a silence. I found time to look 
 about me and take in these changes which she had pro- 
 claimed. At first I appreciated the change as a whole, as 
 an atmosphere unconnected with my former remem-
 
 282 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 brances, but as I gradually recalled the room as it had 
 been in our old days of disordered and slovenly house- 
 keeping the changes came home to me. 
 
 Some one with an artistic sense had been busy about 
 the old house. Bess? I wondered. The brown paint 
 which had adorned the woodwork with whorls and im- 
 possible waves 1 of false graining had been covered with a 
 dull white; the walls, once garish with huge roses, were 
 now quiet gleaming expanses of dull yellow, topped with 
 a slender border of deeper yellow and brown. In place of 
 the old battered tobacco-strewn table the center of the 
 room was occupied by a wicker work affair, with maga- 
 zines and books and final touch of femininity an em- 
 broidery frame instead of the dusty confusion I remem- 
 bered. The haircloth chairs with oak leaf carving cun- 
 ningly calculated to offend the most vulnerable points 
 of one's back had accompanied the table into oblivion. 
 Rugs and polished wood replaced the rag carpets of 
 yesterday; on the walls soft splotches of color had re- 
 placed what had hung there? I searched my memory 
 and brought forth a sense of Civil War engravings in 
 black walnut frames and a series of Our Presidents behind 
 a cracked glass a series which had ended with Garfield. 
 Only one thing of the old order remained, the great wing 
 chair in which my father had lounged and smoked and 
 made tobacco-scattering gestures ; even that was cov- 
 ered with dull brown leather. This brought my gaze back 
 to Bess. From the depths of the chair she had watched 
 my inspection with calm and impersonal interest. 
 
 "You like it?" she asked. "I thought you would. Or 
 perhaps you were looking for the parrot and cat? I 
 haven't arrived at the parrot stage yet, but there's a cat, 
 unless you've frightened her out of town." 
 
 She leaned over and pursed her lips in a whistle; a 
 gray, fluffy head peered out from beneath the table, fol- 
 lowed by a striped, fat little body. Bess smoothed out 
 her dress invitingly; the kitten leaped up with a little
 
 FLOOD TIDE 283 
 
 purr of content, looked at me, looked at her, turned 
 around twice and settled down to blink at me wisely. 
 
 She looked at me critically, through half closed eyes, 
 her head leaned back aganst the dull leather of the chair. 
 "You have changed a good deal. It may be just the 
 shadows of the room, but your face seems brown on the 
 forehead and white below. Is it just my imagination?" 
 
 "It does look strange," I admitted. "I've been south 
 all winter Central America, back in the woods. I let 
 my beard grow ; that's why I seem to be wearing a mask." 
 
 She leaned forward eagerly. "Did Dick ever go back 
 there? He was planning to, you know. Perhaps you 
 were together?" 
 
 "No. Dick's settled down now married and meddling 
 in government. This was just an exploring expedition 
 in upper Gautemala." 
 
 "Then you didn't get as far as Argentina?" A faint 
 smile hovered about her eyes. 
 
 "Argentina? No." I recalled faint memories. I had 
 planned once to go to Argentina and return - "You 
 remember that?" 
 
 "I remember many things." She scratched the kit- 
 ten's ribs and it squirmed and purred in content. The 
 smile vanished from about her eyes and a little line sprang 
 up between them. 
 
 I sought some loose end in the tangled skein of the 
 past, some loose end which we might unravel safely, sure 
 that we would find nothing disagreeable at the end. 
 
 "But Guatemala, you say?" she said presently. 
 "Have you gone into the revolution business or is it 
 mining now? We hear very little of the world outside, 
 you know." 
 
 "The town is as sleepy as ever, I suppose. About last 
 
 winter " I searched about for some point to start on. 
 
 "But I'm keeping you from your work ; don't let me inter- 
 rupt you. You were cooking something?"
 
 284. FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Her lifted eyebrows expressed surprise and mystifi- 
 cation. 
 
 "Experience has taught me to connect a streak of flour 
 on a woman's nose with cooking," I said, pleased with my 
 deduction. 
 
 Her hand went up to her face. "I always get all 
 smudged up,". she laughed, surveying her hand and rub- 
 bing vigorously. "Yes ; I was making cookies ginger 
 cookies. But that can wait." 
 
 "Ginger cookies?" I said with a fine wistfulness. "I 
 haven't tasted one for years. I wish you'd go ahead and 
 let me watch you." 
 
 "Just watch?" She dumped the kitten uncere- 
 moniously on the floor. "I'll make some extra ones, if 
 you've been saving your appetite for years." 
 
 I followed her out into the kitchen, remembering to 
 stoop as I passed through the low doorway and smiling 
 to myself as I ducked my head. The old house had been 
 built for a less altitudinous Coffin than myself, and my 
 first intimation of approaching manhood had been a' 
 thump on the head from this same lintel. 
 
 It had been dark in the living room, shaded as it was 
 beneath the chestnut tree and the thick woven pattern of 
 misty green lilacs against the grayness outside. In the 
 kitchen it was much lighter. Bess took up her inter- 
 rupted labors at the low table before the window, motion- 
 ing me to a low chair whch I dimly recalled as having 
 been part of our old kitchen equipment. 
 
 My chief memory of this unexpected and unsought 
 meeting is that, after the first feeling of surprise wore off, 
 there seemed nothing unexpected and unusual about it. 
 I might have been away for a day, instead of twelve years. 
 Bess was unchanged, changed for the better, if changed 
 at all. Her somewhat angular outlines had filled out, her 
 hair darkened a shade; only the little line which sprang 
 out and disappeared between her brows was new. I even 
 found myself skipping and avoiding subjects which prom-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 285 
 
 ised to be unpleasant, just as I had before. And I fol- 
 lowed my old custom of making awkward breaks. 
 
 "You haven't married again," I said. It was neither a 
 question nor an assertion, rather a sudden thought which 
 slipped out unintentionally. 
 
 She paused for a moment, with the mixing spoon poised 
 over the yellow bowl. 
 
 "No," she said, and the little line came into being. 
 "Once was enough." 
 
 I cursed my clumsiness. 
 
 "And you?" she went on evenly. 
 
 "The same." 
 
 "Not married again?" 
 
 "Not for the first time." I took new courage and 
 blundered on into a question which had perplexed me. 
 "Your mother still lives in the Carver house? I should 
 have thought " 
 
 "She's dead," Bess said soberly. "Yes, I still own the 
 house it never got to be called the Alden house, did it? 
 I rent it, you know, and pay rent here to Captain Wal- 
 dron. There's a difference enough to live on. Captain 
 Waldron is very good ; I don't know what I'd do without 
 him." 
 
 I went on suddenly to the tale of the past winter. That 
 was safe ground. I felt that she might ask questions 
 about Captain Waldron's possession of the house. If she 
 knew that I still owned it 
 
 Darkness crept out from its lurking places in the cor- 
 ners as we talked; the mist changed to a fine drizzle of 
 rain which dripped slowly from the eaves. Bess, a dark 
 silhouette against the gathering grayness outside, laughed 
 frequently as we recalled some absurd old memory, a low, 
 full laugh which came easily and sincerely. I remembered 
 her as seldom laughing in the old days. We talked of 
 safe subjects; Stowell, the changes about town, old 
 schoolmates, Captain Waldron. We avoided talk of 
 ourselves. The Stores was an unavoidable subject; I even
 
 286 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 told her how I had become tired of The Stores. She 
 understood. But I didn't tell her that I was going back to 
 work. That would have brought in Lauretta. I was try- 
 ing to avoid unpleasant subjects, you see. 
 
 I gorged on ginger cookies and found their seductive 
 flavor unimpaired by the passage of time. Finally she 
 sent me away, i 
 
 "But I'll see you again before you leave town," she 
 said as she switched on the hall light. 
 
 "You will," I asserted confidently. Had I planned to 
 leave as soon as possible? Or hadn't I? I forgot. 
 
 I looked back as I turned from the path to the side- 
 walk ; she stood in the doorway looking after me, a slender 
 figure seen through the golden drizzle against the light of 
 the hall. The light went out ; I turned up my coat collar 
 and went on down the hill. 
 
 At the wharf I found Kavenaugh, disconsolately sur- 
 veying the misty darkness from a dry shelter. 
 
 "You got the casting welded?" I asked as we swung 
 away toward the golden lights of the Shadow. 
 
 "They're sending to Boston for a tank of gas," he 
 answered. "Have it to-morrow perhaps. Swell place." 
 He spat disdainfully over the side and gave the wheel a 
 vicious twirl. 
 
 "No hurry. We may stay here a week." 
 
 He looked at me in some astonishment. "You were in 
 a hurry to get away from Boston," he accused. 
 
 "I was born here, Kav," I explained. 
 
 He was silent. He whistled softly to himself and slowed 
 down the motor as we drew alongside. 
 
 "Well, you've lived it down," he concluded dryly. 
 
 Sentiment was not in Kavenaugh. He failed to under- 
 stand how good it was to come back home and revive old 
 acquaintance.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 287 
 
 Captain Waldron came out the next morning, sculling 
 his little dory with sure and swift strokes. I found it 
 difficult to get him to talk of Whitehaven matters at first, 
 but finally, with a cigar held gingerly between his fingers, 
 and his feet cocked up on the rail, I got him started. 
 
 Yes, Betsy had told him that I was here. He was seized 
 by a sudden thought. 
 
 "Say," he ejaculated, clearing his throat and giving 
 signs of embarrassment. "Did you tell her that you 
 owned the house? Or did you?" 
 
 "She thinks you own it," I answered. "No, I didn't tell 
 her." 
 
 He seemed relieved. "You knew she was there?" 
 
 "How should I?" 
 
 "Receipts was all signed E. Learoyd," he reminded me. 
 
 I have never thought of Bess as named Learoyd. Be- 
 sides, I hadn't seen a receipt for over two years. My 
 reputation as a business man suffered in Captain Billy's 
 estimation through this admission. 
 
 "You'd better not tell her, then," he suggested. A 
 blush spread through the tiny veins which etched his 
 cheeks. "I thought I'd best not tell her that she was 
 beholden to you for the rent owing to the late un- 
 pleasantness. You see?" 
 
 I saw. 
 
 "Thought you would," he sighed in relief, and became 
 engrossed in watching a passing sloop. 
 
 "How long has she been here?" I asked. 
 
 "Came in yesterday," he answered absently, craning 
 his neck to follow the sloop. "Run short of gasoline, I 
 guess. Oh, Betsy, you mean?" He mumbled to himself 
 and did some calculation on his fingers. "Five years come 
 November," he announced. "We had the big icewall that 
 year." 
 
 We were silent for a moment. "This Learoyd was a
 
 288 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 bad egg, I guess," he volunteered. "That is, from what 
 I hear of him." 
 
 "So?" 
 
 "Yes. Don't believe anybody stayed awake nights 
 weeping for him." He chewed ferociously on his cigar 
 and shot off at a tangent. "You're still writing your own 
 sailing orders 1 ain't married yet?" 
 
 "Not yet," I answered. 
 
 After that I got but little out of him. He refused to 
 enthuse as I showed him about the Shadow and was unim- 
 pressed by my Gautemalan experiences. At his insistence 
 we went ashore and I was escorted in state to Coulter's 
 Wharf and introduced to an early rising gathering of 
 Captain Waldron's associates. They sat in a line along 
 the front of the wharf, basking in the morning sun and 
 squinting out under tilted hats at the craft in the harbor. 
 Some of these men I remembered faintly as having been 
 infrequent visitors in port during my youth. 
 
 We visited the store together, surprising Grigsby in a 
 hasty lick-and-a-promise cleaning. He had made a few 
 pitifully few timid changes since I had left him in 
 charge and snatched eagerly at some changes which I 
 proposed. Yes, he had thought of something like that, 
 but he wasn't quite sure, he hadn't wanted to make any 
 
 great changes without my permission, he had I 
 
 understood, and arranged in a few moments for changes 
 which my father would have considered and weighed for 
 months. I felt a glow of satisfaction at my summary dis- 
 posal of matters, and at the same time was conscious of a 
 feeling of pity and contempt for Grigsby. Like the rest 
 of Whitehaven, he was content to scrub along with anti- 
 quated methods. 
 
 I believe that Captain Waldron proposed that we go 
 up to the old house; I should have suggested it if he 
 hadn't. Now that Elizabeth had come back into my mind 
 again I found myself dwelling more and more on old mem- 
 ories of her ; long forgotten things quickened and took on
 
 FLOOD TIDE 289 
 
 the aspect of life again as we went slowly up the hill. Cap- 
 tain Waldron, despite his boasted spryness, found it con- 
 venient to stop here and there, ostensibly to point out 
 changes in the town but really to regain his breath. I 
 listened and commented at the wrong points; how had I 
 ever forgotten Bess and that queer trick she had of smil- 
 ing in a one-sided manner? Had I really forgotten? 
 
 I found it hard that morning to compare Bess with the 
 image of years ago ; the impressions of the day before had 
 overlayed and obscured a good many of my early recol- 
 lections of her. As I recognized and remembered some 
 of the odd little mannerisms she had once possessed, the 
 impression that she had not changed became stronger. 
 She had a queer way of asking a question, inflecting it 
 as a statement and punctuating it by a lifted brow; an- 
 other trick which I recognized and recalled was a fashion 
 she had of snapping her fingers when one was half way 
 through an answer to her question. She had always been 
 singularly quick and alert at grasping things. I detected 
 certain resemblances between Lauretta and Bess; the 
 clear pallor of her face, for instance. I remembered that 
 even in winter Lauretta always had a drift of freckles 
 across her nose. Scarcely an ornament, I decided. 
 
 Unconsciously or not, I see that I must have been 
 making this comparison through all the week that I 
 lingered at Whitehaven, sometimes subconsciously and 
 sometimes deliberately. Either way, I found it a hard one 
 to make, this balancing of a mental image with flesh and 
 blood. Sometimes Elizabeth suffered by the contrast, as 
 was natural, for in my mental image of Lauretta I had 
 incorporated all her good features and omitted the ones 
 which had caused me passing feelings of annoyance. As 
 time went on I found myself recalling these flaws and 
 replacing her image with that of Bess. . . . 
 
 Worthington quotes something about turning from a 
 chiseled Venus to yonder girl who fords the burn. . . .
 
 290 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Kavenaugh completed his repairs and the next day I 
 persuaded Elizabeth to come on a trial run down the 
 coast to the northward. Kavenaugh had expressed a 
 desire to try out the repaired motor before venturing 
 on an extended trip with it and this furnished me my 
 excuse. 
 
 There was a thin, tenuous mist in the air, barely enough 
 to bring out the projections of the coast in relief. We 
 leaned over the rail and watched the coast slide slowly 
 by, past the beach and the mouth of the river and the 
 wooded headlands beyond partly denuded now and with 
 a sprinkling of summer cottages where I recalled nothing 
 but unbroken shore. We passed the cliff behind which 
 Dick and I had hunted rabbits; Bess laughed as I told 
 her of our exploit. 
 
 "I had an old horse pistol and Dick had a Flobert. I 
 was to be the reserve gun to hold my fire in case they 
 charged." 
 
 "You never told me of that." 
 
 I hesitated. "And back there but the dune has shifted. 
 We sat there you were going to college or on the stage. 
 And Martha was shocked. Or was it Hilda?" 
 
 "Hilda," she concluded after a pause. "We looked 
 down on her then because she seemed content with such 
 little things. We looked down on everybody who didn't 
 agree with us. I'm not sure. Perhaps she was nearer 
 right than we were." 
 
 "She was a stuffy young prig. So were we, in a dif- 
 ferent way." 
 
 Bess shrugged her shoulders. "She seems satisfied. I 
 see her now and then." 
 
 "It's easy to get little things," I said. I had never 
 loved Hilda. 
 
 "Little things," she repeated, dwelling on the word. "I 
 suppose you're right."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 291 
 
 I had a sense that she disagreed with my interpretation 
 but thought the subject hardly worth discussing. 
 
 "But I imagine she's had her disappointments," she 
 went on. "We all have. You have and so have I. Things 
 haven't turned out as we wished them to." She wrinkled 
 her brows. "No, I'll change that. They have turned 
 out as we wished them, but the reality disappoints us. 
 Isn't that it?" 
 
 She faced me squarely and put the question direct. 
 
 "Partly," I admitted. "But we can only plan and 
 then try to bring reality out of what we plan. If we fail, 
 either in accomplishment or in aim well, we're in the 
 same boat with the rest of humanity." 
 
 "Then your idea of success is ?" 
 
 I groped in my mind for an answer. 
 
 "Offhand, I should say " I hesitated. "I haven't 
 considered it. But perhaps aiming at the right thing 
 and then getting it is as good a definition as any." 
 
 The Shadow lost headway for a moment as Kavenaugh 
 made some adjustment in the motors; then their steady 
 drone sounded again and we picked up speed. Bess con- 
 sidered my statement, watching the waves as they fell 
 away from the side in little curling ripples. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose that covers it," she concluded in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "We make mistakes, of course 
 
 I had been waiting for that and yet hoping that it 
 would not come. 
 
 "We all do," I added. "But sometimes we have a 
 chance to make up for them." 
 
 I watched the cliffs slip by and was conscious that my 
 heart had shifted a notch and was beating in my throat. 
 
 "We all do," she echoed absently. "But about the 
 making up I'm not sure. Do we ever?" 
 
 I was silent. I wasn't sure about that myself. Had 
 she deliberately provoked this discussion? I see now that 
 this question was so near the surface that it needed but
 
 292 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 a slight shift in the current to bring it up. We had made 
 that shift. 
 
 There was but one answer to her question. I was very 
 conscious of her nearness, leaning on the rail beside me; 
 out of the corner of my eye I took in the droop of her 
 shoulders and the clean, smooth lines of her face and 
 throat seen in profile. I couldn't answer and the chance 
 slipped from me. 
 
 "Show me about below decks," she commanded 
 abruptly. 
 
 VI 
 
 I loitered and forgot my haste. There was no hurry; 
 I might not come this way again for years. Best make 
 the most of it while I could. There were further ex- 
 cursions on the Shadow, Captain Waldron and once even 
 Grigsby and his progeny accompanying us. There were 
 no further awkward allusions. 
 
 I found other excuses for staying. I discovered friends 
 among the summer colony or rather they discovered me 
 people I had met during other summers along the coast 
 and on my previous visit at Whitehaven, three years be- 
 fore. I remember once or twice an uneasy feeling that I 
 was slipping back into the old careless way of living that 
 I had left forever. But this was my last fling at it 
 absolutely. Carpe diem. 
 
 Among these people I found Mrs. Fairleigh, still pur- 
 suing the eligible male on behalf of her two gawky 
 daughters and with no more success than she had found 
 at the Arrowrock colony. She was the first to discover 
 me, coming out to the Shadow and scolding me for not 
 letting her know I was coming. She could have used me, 
 she said frankly. I had been abandoned as a possibility 
 and she could afford to be frank. 
 
 "But you're early," she said. 
 
 I looked polite questions.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 293 
 
 "For the midsummer races, of course," she explained. 
 That seemed a good excuse for my presence and I let it 
 pass. She schemed and planned and assumed a proprie- 
 tary right over the Shadow; there were to be dances 
 ashore, I gathered, and during regatta week it being 
 assumed that I would stay a two day trip. 
 
 "There will be a moon," she calculated, "and the girls 
 look good by moonlight provided it's not too bright." 
 
 I was a helpless victim. In truth I rather enjoyed 
 being ordered about. 
 
 "And who else is coming up from the Arrowrock?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 I had no idea. 
 
 "The Annersleys?" she suggested. 
 
 "They're down in Maine," I answered. "I'm to join 
 them when you let me go." 
 
 "Young Larry is quite a friend of yours, isn't he?" she 
 suggested innocently. 
 
 "They're good people," I said with an assumed indif- 
 ference. 
 
 "Hmmm, yes; I think I see." She smiled at some 
 thought of hers and changed the subject. . . . 
 
 She paused at the gangway as she left, struggling with 
 some demon of curiosity. I expected further questions 
 about the Annersleys. 
 
 "You seem quite at home over town," she said, inspect- 
 ing the handle of her parasol with a sudden interest. 
 "You know some one over there?" 
 
 "I'm a native, you know." 
 
 "Oh!" she said, as though that explained some deep 
 problem. And then: "Oh!" in a tone of understanding. 
 She had the gift of packing volumes in one syllable. 
 
 She looked back as her launch circled away and called 
 up to me over her shoulder. "You must come over this 
 afternoon and bring her." 
 
 "I will," I answered, and wondered why she laughed.
 
 294 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Later I was struck with the suspicion that her invitation 
 had been merely a shot at random. I hadn't mentioned 
 Elizabeth. . . . 
 
 Still, Mrs. Fairleigh was surprised when I brought 
 Elizabeth over, surprised and not greatly pleased at first, 
 for the girls suffered by the contrast. We sat on the 
 piazza overlooking the rocks that afternoon ; there was 
 an ancient dowager whom Mrs. Fairleigh had presented 
 as "Cousin James' wife, you know" Cousin James, I 
 gathered by inference, had lent Mrs. Fairleigh the place 
 for the summer and the girls, who presently vanished 
 on some mysterious errand having to do with dressmaking. 
 I remembered that the dowager was inquistive in a mildly 
 genealogical fashion. She was visibly relieved when she 
 found that Bess, through Learoyd, was connected with 
 an old Mr. Bradford. 
 
 "I remember him well. One of the very first families to 
 build here," she told Mrs. Fairleigh triumphantly, "one 
 of the very first." By her tone she allied Mr. Bradford 
 with the Pilgrim Fathers. 
 
 She was also very annoying in seeking an explanation 
 of Elizebeth's presence in Whitehaven. To her mind the 
 townspeople were an inferior sort of peasantry indeed. 
 
 "Settlement work!" she concluded triumphantly, al- 
 though with an inflection of doubt. 
 
 "After a fashion," Bess agreed quietly. Her tone 
 forestalled further inquiry. . . . 
 
 That night Mrs. Fairleigh cornered me at the yacht 
 club and planned a dinner on the Shadow just a few 
 matrimonial possibilities and her daughters, with a 
 sprinkling of people to fill in. Quite a small affair, I was 
 assured. 
 
 "And Mrs. Learoyd, of course," she added, quite as 
 an afterthought.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 295 
 
 vn 
 
 "I wish the girls were half as good-looking," said Mrs. 
 Fairleigh viciously. "But they will stick out of their 
 clothes. Look at them !" 
 
 She turned to me half despairingly. She was right, but 
 it is always safer to contradict such statements. People 
 expect it. 
 
 "I know," she admitted, "it's fashionable to be thin 
 don't I know it, though, what with half starving myself ! 
 But it's not fashionable to be skinny never will be. They 
 take after their father. Your Mrs. Learoyd now " 
 
 She considered Bess thoughtfully. We sat in the 
 shadows beyond the awning which spread above the deck ; 
 across the lighted deck Bess laughed and talked with a 
 man named Isham, one of these people with deep voices 
 and shallow minds. He was correcting her pronunciation 
 of an Italian name. "Not Forenzee" we heard, "but 
 Feorendha." He showed prominent teeth. She tried to 
 follow his pronunciation and gave it up. "Let's call it 
 Florence, then," she answered and smiled up at him. 
 "That's safer and more English." I disliked Isham in- 
 stinctively. 
 
 "That dress of hers is years out of style," Mrs. Fair- 
 leigh continued, "although of course you wouldn't notice 
 that. But it suits her. Ethel, now, looks as though some 
 one had wished her clothes on her some one with a spite 
 against her." 
 
 I mumbled something; these comments of hers were 
 embarrassing at times. 
 
 "I wish upon my soul that some one would marry 
 them," she went on. "Couldn't you? Just to help me 
 out? Guaranteed quiet and house-broken, domestic 
 too confoundedly domestic. You won't? Oh well 
 She shrugged her plump shoulders and laughed. "I 
 wanted to be frank, for once. Daughters are a bother. 
 And they won't help themselves.
 
 296 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "But Mrs. Learoyd?" she resumed. "You've told me 
 nothing of her, just produced her without explanation or 
 apology. Not that she needs apology, unless for hiding 
 away so long. But explanation yes. A sweetheart in 
 every port but that went out with the square-riggers. 
 Or is she an old love? Upon my soul, the more I see of 
 you bachelors' the less I know about you." 
 
 "She is a widow," I volunteered. 
 
 "I knew that already." 
 
 "And I knew her a long time ago." I realized how 
 very little I knew of Bess and her life during the past 
 years. 
 
 "Go on," prompted Mrs. Fairleigh. " 'Once upon a 
 time ' " 
 
 Some one slipped a record in the music machine which 
 had been brought up from below and the groups under 
 the awning broke up into couples. Mrs. Fairleigh rose. 
 "Don't mind me," she said in apology, "my mind runs on 
 these things." She contemplated the dancers with a 
 grimace. "Dance and be thin. No, not with you ; you've 
 been away a thousand years and I'm not giving lessons. 
 I'll take Isham away from Mrs. Learoyd. He deserves 
 to do penance." 
 
 I watched her as she crossed the lighted space and 
 approached Isham and Bess. They chatted together a 
 moment, then Mrs. Fairleigh seized on Isham, despite his 
 mock protestations, and they circled away together. 
 Through the shifting figures I caught occasional glimpses 
 of Bess, framed against an opening in the awning, a 
 straight figure in dull shimmering yellow against the vel- 
 vet dusk of the night and the long reflected lines of light 
 from the anchored craft about us. She drew back, half 
 within the outer shadows, and looked on with a smile; I 
 felt her eyes on me as I picked my way across the deck 
 and stood beside her. 
 
 "I haven't danced for years," she said, and wrinkled
 
 FLOOD TIDE 297 
 
 her brows in an effort of memory. "And then not like 
 this. 'Spieling,' they used to call it." 
 
 "Try it," I urged. 
 
 "I shouldn't dare," she remonstrated. "But we might 
 try one of the old ones. No ; not in there, out here where 
 they won't see us." 
 
 She stepped back into the darkness. I slipped my arm 
 about her and we circled off into the bow, dimly lit by the 
 side lanterns and the riding light high on the mast above 
 us. As I held her I was very conscious of her physical 
 nearness, of the long smooth lines of her shoulders gleam- 
 ing in the darkness, the soft curve of her arm against 
 my sleeve, the recurrent pressure of her body against me 
 as I swung her about. We cut across one corner of the 
 sheaf of light from the gap in the raised awning; her eyes 
 swung up to meet mine. For a brief instant I caught a 
 glimpse of her smile; then we entered the darkness again 
 and her face became a dim blur. For an instant I had a 
 feeling that we were back where we had been so long ago, 
 looking forward to life together. Some old codger with a 
 liking for young people had invited us out to a dance on 
 his yacht ; next week I would go to Hatherly's and start 
 life. Bess was twenty again and I was twenty-two. 
 
 I felt a sudden and fierce renewal of that old passionate 
 hunger which had been with me night and day in those 
 times ; the old sense of incompleteness, of living a half life, 
 came over me again. The impression lasted but a mo- 
 ment; for the briefest possible space of time I forgot all 
 that had happened in the intervening years. 
 
 "You were talking about me?" she asked, and I came 
 out of my dream. 
 
 "Who?" I managed to ask. 
 
 "You and Mrs. Fairleigh." She leaned back and 
 glanced up at me. "Talking about my dress? It's out 
 of style, I know." 
 
 "No; that's all right." We avoided a deck chair by
 
 898 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 a narrow margin. "Very much all right. I never im- 
 agined you well, as having arms and shoulders before." 
 
 "I am somewhat outdoors." She released one arm and 
 hitched up the slender gold chain over one shoulder. "But 
 you like it? Don't talk, please." With eyes half closed 
 she hummed a low, throaty accompaniment to the music. 
 We were near the rail when the music ceased and the low 
 murmer of the surf on the rocks beyond the Point again 
 became audible. I dropped my arm slightly and we 
 waited for it to start again. 
 
 "Give us something beside church music," came a voice 
 Isham's from behind the awning. 
 
 "They're all opera records," we heard the reply; then, 
 "Ah ! here's one with some pep in it," followed by the first 
 bars of a record which Kavenaugh had bought in New 
 York one of these compositions with tom-toms and cym- 
 bals in it. 
 
 Bess laughed and slipped away from me. "We can't 
 dance to that," she said, and drew out a deck chair. I 
 seated myself beside her and we gazed out over the 
 scattered lights of the harbor. 
 
 "Yes," I said suddenly. 
 
 She looked at me inquiringly. "Yes, what?" 
 
 I had spoken half to myself. "I was trying to remem- 
 ber the last time you and I danced together at the town 
 hall, wasn't it? And we pulled a settee up to one of the 
 windows in the balcony and looked out over the Square. 
 Do you remember that?" 
 
 She was silent for a moment. "Let's drop this 'do you 
 remember' strain," she said suddenly. "It's getting on 
 my nerves. How many times have you said that this 
 week, do you remember?" 
 
 She bit her lips in vexation. "There it is again, you 
 see. I'm contracting the habit myself. Let's drop it," 
 
 "You want to forget, then?" I blurted. 
 
 She considered, leaning forward with her chin on her 
 hand. I glanced aside and caught the clear outline of
 
 FLOOD TII)K MM) 
 
 her profile against I lie li^hl, the lonj(, clean Nweep of tier 
 throat ; I fell .1 .in Mi ii contraction of my In MI I 
 
 "Hardly lluil," nlie aiiNWered finally Sn it low voice. 
 "There'M no Ilivcr Lethe, you know. If I here WUN 
 
 Mi l''.i 1 1 l< i"li appeared in I lie opening of the awning, 
 blinked a moment in (lie durkiicMH, nnd then, ptrotiving 
 UN, drew buck. 
 
 "Come oid," called HCHH, Mmilin/j up ill her. "We're 
 wall flowers, making acid LI. of the more forlimalc. 
 1'nli ... you want lo lx> talked ahoul 
 
 She pulled out another chair und moved ha<'k from the 
 rail. 
 
 "(iod forbid!" ..ml Mi l''a!rleij^h fervently, |ilumpin^; 
 down and fanning herHelf. t4 My reputation won't, uland 
 it. You're the only Heimible per.soiiH aboard; it'n Nheer 
 criminality to dance in Much weather. What were. \">i 
 1 .1 1 1 in" uboul ?" 
 
 "About a mythical river,'* I said and turned to Hi MM. 
 ' ^ nil were MlUining the exiltencc of luch a Ntre/im. Sup' 
 j)OHe it (Jid exiwtP" 
 
 I \\.< .li u -i in i in < I to have an answer, (JeHpile All . l-'.m 
 |i i"l/ . interference. Hut lOli/abelh evaded me. 
 
 "You could bottle it. 'i'here'M million.'! in it," xh(? 
 replied. 
 
 Mrw. l'airlei^h W/AH myitifled, "Hut where in \.\\\H 
 river?" 
 
 <<r !Miat'H |n .1 it; no one knoww. I thought once that it 
 run into the nea; perhapN it doen, but I haven't been able 
 to find it." 
 
 "Fairy talcM I" nhu ncoffVd at my explanation, "Hut 
 you remind mo that I'm Mm i y You haven't .u. I. a 
 tiling aH piuutli or ice cream on board, haver you?" 
 
 "There'll Home, cream, I think. Hut it'* very fat- 
 tening," I luggeftad maliciouMly, 
 
 "I can utaiuJ it," ihe nuid rcHi^nedly. "I've lout five 
 pound:, und can afford to take on a few more, diet me 
 Home, pleuHc."
 
 300 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I went below and routed out the steward, pausing on 
 the way to curse Mrs. Fairleigh heartily for her untimely 
 intrusion. I returned to find that Isham had joined them, 
 waving a glowing cigar and comparing Whitehaven in 
 derogatory fashion with Mediterranean ports. He pre- 
 ferred the latter, I gathered. "That, for instance," he 
 said, and waved a glowing arc toward the clustered black 
 masses of the wharves on the town side. "They wouldn't 
 allow that sort of thing over there." . Isham had no great 
 love for things cis-Atlantic his own phrase and took 
 great pains to make his distaste clear. Mrs. Fairleigh 
 ate and hesitated and ate again with a furtive air, paus- 
 ing now and again to remind Isham of something he had 
 omitted from what was evidently an often rehearsed story. 
 He and Bess became involved in a discussion involving 
 some phase of French railway service she had been 
 abroad with Learoyd, I already knew from Captain Wal- 
 dron. And I sat glumly listening, outside of it all. 
 
 I had no further chance to speak with Bess alone that 
 evening. I avoided it. I had been on the edge of doing 
 something unpremeditated, and wanted a chance to think 
 it over. It was nearly midnight when the party broke 
 up; we went ashore in the tender and Isham took us 
 around from the Point in his car. We left Bess at her 
 gate and I returned alone to the Shadow. 
 
 I came back to sit and brood in the darkness. That 
 thrill as I held Bess in my arms warned me that I was 
 drifting into something that I should avoid. I had no 
 right to fall in love with Bess again. I had been drifting 
 for a week now, I recognized, and it seemed time to reckon 
 up and take a fresh departure. I had drifted on a 
 strange coast, a pleasant one, but one which was not on 
 the course which I had planned. I had better leave White- 
 haven as soon as possible to-morrow, I decided. I 
 would see Bess in the morning and tell her. Tell her not 
 my reasons, but the simple fact that I was going. I 
 would go on and carry out my plans.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 301 
 
 I peopled the semicircle of chairs with their vanished 
 occupants and asked their opinions. I was not quite sure 
 of myself and I wanted their help, even visionary help 
 would be of some use. Isham, with the thin wet lines 
 of hair combed across his lucent forehead, advised me to 
 stay. 
 
 "Not so bad here," I caught a faint whisper of his 
 booming drawl. "If you're going anywhere I should 
 advise you to cross the pond. The English ports are 
 very pleasant at this season." 
 
 He misunderstood. It was not a question of places but 
 of two women. His shadow regarded me dubiously and 
 refused to answer. 
 
 I turned to the chair which had held Mrs. Fairleigh 
 and found no consolation there. "Oh, stay along," she 
 said. "You're promised for Wednesday and can't go 
 anyway." 
 
 She vanished. 
 
 The soft padding of bare feet broke the silence, and 
 Karl appeared, clearing way the debris of the party. 
 The sudden glow of my cigar startled him ; with a mut- 
 tered apology he went on with his work. He carried 
 away the wraith of Mrs. Fairleigh, for once mute and 
 unprotesting ; Isham was folded up and laid one side. 
 He approached the third chair. 
 
 "I'll tend to that one, Karl," I said. "Better go be- 
 low and turn in. You can do this in the morning." 
 
 He passed on forward and vanished. We sat alone, 
 the shadow of Bess and myself; a chill little wind sprang 
 up and broke the long pillars of red and green light into 
 flakes and fragments of flashing color on the harbor floor. 
 The late moon rose over the black masses of the Point as 
 we sat in silent communion ; an old moon, stretching forth 
 ineffectual arms to embrace the shining past. Just as I 
 had been. 
 
 I rose and stood a moment over the vacant chair be- 
 side me.
 
 302 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "You made your decision once ; I'm making mine now," 
 I said to myself, and folded up the chair and went below. 
 
 vm 
 
 I went ashore in the morning to tell Elizabeth that I 
 must leave that day, shrinking from it and yet knowing 
 that it was the only thing to do. I had already sent a 
 note to Mrs. Fairleigh, pleading a sudden telegram as the 
 reason for my unexpected departure. There was no 
 backing out now. I had written a similar note to Eliza- 
 beth, written it and frowned over it and at last torn it 
 up and thrown the fragments through the porthole. It 
 seemed unfair to treat her in so cavalier a manner. I 
 adhered to my orignal determination of telling her myself. 
 
 I found the house deserted. The gray kitten peered 
 at me from the shelter of a chair and then came forward 
 to rub against my legs ; she arched her back to be 
 scratched and followed me out through the kitchen. 
 Through the rear window I saw a glint of moving color 
 under the low arches of the apple trees. We went out 
 together, the kitten running ahead of me down the trod- 
 den path, looking back at me and making private ex- 
 cursions into the grass on either side in pursuit of 
 grasshoppers and other big game. 
 
 Bess was feeding the chickens which she had housed 
 in our old "Piruts* Lare" a late hatch, for the kitten 
 and sundry of his acquaintances had made a Roman 
 holiday of the first brood. The little fluffy yellow balls 
 ran about her feet as she showered grain on them from 
 an earthen bowl; the kitten spied them as we noiselessly 
 drew near and lost interest in grasshoppers. He crouched 
 low with twitching hindquarters, then sprang at one which 
 had wandered from the main flock. The chicken shrieked 
 in fright and fled with outstretched wings ; the kitten, 
 equally surprised and frightened, fled in the opposite
 
 FLOOD TIDE 303 
 
 direction, scrambled up a tree and glared down with 
 yellow eyes. 
 
 "James!" said Bess reprovingly. "Didn't I lock you 
 in the house?" She turned, saw me and smiled. 
 
 "You put him up to that," she accused. 
 
 "Indeed I didn't," I protested. "That was solely his 
 own idea." 
 
 James descended and was forgiven and hid behind the 
 folds of Elizabeth's dress, eyeing the chickens with an 
 air of high indifference. 
 
 "You enjoyed last night?" I asked as she resumed her 
 scattering of grain. 
 
 "Immensely," she said, and stifled a yawn. She 
 laughed. "I'm sleepy; don't misinterpret. I really did 
 enjoy it." 
 
 "I hoped you would." 
 
 "I haven't been to anything of that sort for it must 
 be nearly five years," she said reminiscently. "Do you 
 realize how much you've shaken me out of my regular way 
 of living?" 
 
 "Do you regret it?" 
 
 "No," she considered, and was silent for a moment, 
 dribbling out the yellow grain between her fingers. "But 
 you'll be going away soon and I'll get back into it." 
 
 "I " This was my chance to tell her that I was 
 
 going to-day. It had seemed marvelously easy last night ; 
 now, in her presence, it seemed a most difficult thing to 
 say. "No matter," I said in answer to her questioning 
 look. 
 
 "Watch!" she said suddenly and stooped over the 
 chickens with a sudden graceful gesture. "Krrrrrr!" she 
 trilled. There was a scurrying and scattering, a twinkle 
 of yellow legs and not a chicken was to be seen, save one 
 little fellow who ran about in circles, setting up a most 
 piteous clamor. Bess held out her hands and he ran into 
 them, snuggling down and cheeping contentedly. 
 
 She lifted him for my inspection. "This is Horatius
 
 304 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 'whence all but he had fled,' you know. Poor dear, he's 
 lost one eye." Horatius cocked his remaining eye at me 
 belligerently, pecked at her fingernail, and looked forth 
 on the world in vast satisfaction. 
 
 "Silly things," she commented. "They think the sky 
 is falling." I watched her as she leaned over and coaxed 
 them out with ' reassuring noises. The morning sun sent 
 down little lance shafts of gold between the leaves of the 
 trees ; her figure, as she leaned over, was dappled with 
 alternate light and shadow. Many of my remembrances 
 of her are indistinct half-visualizations, but this memory 
 stands out with noonday clearness. I recall every line 
 and sweep of her dress, swirling and blending into the 
 grass as she knelt on one knee, tempting the scattered 
 legions from their retirement. One ray of sunshine struck 
 her hair and sunk a shaft of pure gold through the coils. 
 Over her shoulder I saw Horatius peer out from between 
 her curled forefinger and thumb and peck valiantly to 
 show the more timorous that there was nothing to 
 fear. . . . 
 
 I find this the most difficult part of my story to write. 
 Difficult because I cannot explain it. I can explain neither 
 my previous blindness nor the great flare which lit up my 
 inner being as I stood looking down on Elizabeth. I be- 
 came aware of a vast and intolerable ache within me; 
 a sudden longing which transcended any sensation I had 
 ever known. It was an engulfing and overwhelming desire, 
 of torturing poignancy ; Bess was the one woman who had 
 ever mattered or ever would matter in my life. I had 
 known this and sought to conceal it even from myself; 
 I had no doubts now. All the barriers which I had 
 erected were swept away; my resolution of the night be- 
 fore vanished. It became the squeaking and gobbering of 
 a bloodless creature who had deliberately shut his eyes to 
 the truth ; it became the maundering of a poor emas- 
 culated being whose actions were directed by unreason. 
 
 But when I spoke the man of the night before was still
 
 FLOOD TIDE 305 
 
 in control for a bare moment; he spoke, and was then 
 swirled away never to reappear. 
 
 "Yes," I said. Had she glanced up I must have cried 
 out in agony. With an effort I went on. "I'm going 
 away soon to-day." I paused again and wrenched con- 
 trol from this blindworm creature who had ruled me so 
 long. The effort brought tears to my eyes. "Will you 
 come with me?" 
 
 The only sign that Elizabeth had heard was an invol- 
 untary contraction of her hand ; the flow of grain ceased. 
 She remained immobile for a long moment, then turned 
 her head slowly and looked up at me. 
 
 "Marry me, I mean," I went on dully. "I want you." 
 There seemed nothing more to say. 
 
 Still she failed to answer. 
 
 "Can't we start over again, Bess patch things up 
 and go on from where we left off?" 
 
 She rose slowly and regarded me with level eyes. There 
 was no doubt, no confusion in her ga/e, only an intense 
 and searching scrutiny. 
 
 "I need you I have needed you all these years," I 
 went on desperately, regaining my voice. "I was a fool 
 once, let me make up for it now." 
 
 She shook her head. "You can't." 
 
 "I know; these things are past all remedy. Can't we 
 forget them and start afresh?" 
 
 "If we only could!" I barely caught the words. 
 
 "Why not? Are we to be bound all our lives by the 
 blindness of those two so long ago? They are dead, our 
 old selves, and better forgotten." 
 
 "Not dead ; we can forget the dead." She turned from 
 me and spoke over her shoulder. 
 
 "I've been blind for so long, Bess, and I see it now. 
 "I have always wanted you always loved you and always 
 shall." I was still dazed by the suddenness of my out- 
 burst and could only reiterate my intense longing. 
 "Bess !" I cried.
 
 306 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 She shook her averted head. "No ; I can't." 
 
 "You can't?" That was my answer, then. "Why?"' 
 
 "Don't you see that it would be just a patching up?" 
 she said slowly, still turned away from me. "The same 
 old difficulties with new ones added? We've changed a 
 good deal more than either of us realize, perhaps." 
 
 "You haven*t changed." 
 
 "I have; and so have you." 
 
 I made impatient and no doubt absurd gestures. This 
 was a side issue. But: "For better or worse?" I asked. 
 
 She looked at me searchingly. "I scarcely know," she 
 said. As she turned I saw that her eyes were misty with 
 tears. "For the better in some things, perhaps, and in 
 others not changed at all." 
 
 "Not changed in one thing. I still love you," I per- 
 sisted. 
 
 She thought for a moment with downcast eyes. "Yes, 
 I think you do I know you do. But is that everything? 
 Isn't it possible to love a person and still see the utter 
 impossibility of marriage? I know that neither of us 
 would be any happier for it. We never agreed on any- 
 thing; we never shall. . . . I'm afraid just that, afraid. 
 Selfish, too, perhaps." 
 
 "You were not afraid once." 
 
 "No. But I'm wiser now. I know enough to be afraid. 
 I know how hard, how impossible it would be for you 
 and me to get along together. We couldn't we're sel- 
 fish, both of us, unwilling to concede. For a while, per- 
 haps but in the end it would mean unhappiness for us 
 both. I've had enough unhappiness in my life." She 
 spoke in dry, hard phrases, paused for a moment and 
 then went on passionately. "Don't you see ? We couldn't 
 agree before could we agree now that we have grown 
 still further apart? Why won't you see it?" 
 
 I tried, and failed. "You expect too much," I said. 
 "No two are in perfect agreement on everything." 
 
 "I know. If it was a matter of mere trivial differences
 
 FLOOD TIDE 307 
 
 but it goes deeper than that. We had different ideals 
 of life twelve years ago ; have we drawn any closer since 
 then? Or further apart? It isn't a surface difference, 
 it's fundamental. We can't help it." 
 
 "Then this is your ideal of life, living here in this 
 fashion?" Some of the contempt which I had always 
 felt for Whitehaven crept into my voice. 
 
 "Not exactly," she said, "but it's nearer to it than 
 what you offer. I'm contented here, not happy, perhaps, 
 but fairly contented. I know, 'content with little things' 
 as you said. Not so easy as you imagined, however. 
 Before you came but that's selfish. ... I wish you 
 hadn't brought this up ; I tried to avoid it. It would have 
 been hard to get back, after you had gone ; now it will be 
 harder still." 
 
 She made a gesture of finality. "You said that you 
 were going to-day?" she said evenly. 
 
 "You're not going back to this poverty stricken life," 
 I said, almost angrily. "I won't let you." I swung her 
 around, then drew her close to me, my arms about her. 
 She neither resisted nor responded; I held her close for a 
 moment, her head drooped back with a bar of sunlight 
 across her dear face ; her eyes were half veiled and a faint 
 shadow of a smile lingered about the corners of her 
 mouth. Only for a moment; then the monstrous futility 
 of my desire came to me with sudden force and I dropped 
 my arms. She made no motion to free herself, but stood 
 as I left her. Her eyes opened slowly, not chilling blue 
 as they had been a moment before, but filled with a soft 
 and impersonal regret. 
 
 "No," she said quietly. "You can't change me that 
 way. Twelve years ago you might have, but not now." 
 
 She took another handful of grain and sent small 
 golden showers over the backs of the chickens. "Shall we 
 drop this?" she asked. "It's no use, you see." 
 
 "I have been mistaken all week," I said wearily. "I 
 thought that you still loved me."
 
 308 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 " You are mistaken in many things," she said in a low 
 voice. "But not that. I do love you, as much as I ever 
 did. But it's different. Is it ever possible to love a 
 person with open eyes? To love him completely beyond 
 the shadow of a doubt? . . . It's a curious sort of love 
 I love you and want to be near you all these years I 
 haven't forgotten you and yet I won't marry you? 
 Why? Because I have no illusions about marriage, I 
 suppose. No illusions about anything. You have, and I 
 envy you. Marriage isn't a solution. It seemed so 
 once Her voice dropped away into silence and 
 
 when she spoke again it was with a different intonation. 
 "It was a solution then. Why couldn't we have seen at 
 first that we were growing apart with every day? We 
 might have worked matters out, even fought them out, 
 and come to some sort of a solution. But now too late." 
 
 "I have everything that you wanted then," I offered. 
 I found a faint hope springing up within me. 
 
 "I know but you don't consider that I may not want 
 them now. You think that I haven't changed, that I'm 
 still a silly girl in the twenties. It's flattering, in a way 
 but not so very flattering after all. I don't want to live 
 as you do, I won't, I'm not fitted for it." 
 
 "We could live here." I clutched at this solution. 
 
 "Don't be absurd," she said with a slight touch of 
 sarcasm. "You love the town, I know. Neither of us 
 would be happy; I'm contented here alone, but I couldn't 
 be contented with you. No. We've settled into lines 
 and we can't get out of them." 
 
 A sudden and senseless jealousy took possession of me. 
 "There is someone else here?" 
 
 "Give me credit for speaking the truth, at least," she 
 said bitterly. 
 
 My persistency, my blindness, my awkwardness must 
 have hurt her immensely. But I kept on: "Is it Learoyd, 
 then?" 
 
 "Still bound by his memory, you mean?" She in-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 309 
 
 spected me gravely. "Yes, partly that. . . . Not as you 
 mean, though. I haven't told you anything of our life 
 together you don't need to be told. It wasn't a very 
 happy time. Perhaps that's why I'm afraid." 
 
 Her lips quivered and for the first time I realized that 
 I was hurting her. I tried to frame some sort of apology 
 and found my mind a hopeless turmoil. 
 
 "Have you ever considered yourself coldly just stood 
 off and looked yourself over?" she demanded suddenly. 
 
 "Yes. A good many times, Bess." I thought of the 
 moonlight and the shadows before Casa Number Three. 
 
 "And acted on it?" 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "And found yourself right?" she went on steadily. 
 
 "No. Anything but right." 
 
 She was silent for a space. "I've found it just the 
 same way," she said finally. "Just the same. After Phil 
 died. You don't know anything about that." 
 
 "I don't want to," I answered. "That doesn't matter." 
 
 She ignored my statement. "That was the first time 
 that I'd ever been free to do as I chose," she went on. 
 "I wanted to do something, to make something out of my 
 life. You don't know how I wanted to do something 
 worth while. Oh, I tried ; I had a little money left, and 
 I tried it for nearly two years. I wanted to do some- 
 thing anything, just so I could respect myself. And 
 I lost what little self-respect I'd ever had." She stopped 
 and laughed. "I couldn't even hold a place long enough 
 to get started. My training, I suppose if I ever had 
 any training. Or inheritance. I don't know which. My 
 father, a visionary ne'er-do-well ; my mother, a vacillating 
 nonentity; myself what you might expect. I had the 
 desire, as my father had, but I couldn't quite do things. 
 I always seemed to fall just short of that. Little Polish 
 and Jew girls learned faster than I did, and did better 
 work. I was just too old to learn and not old enough 
 for an old ladies' home. I tried everything. For a time
 
 310 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I was cashier in one of your stores; you didn't know 
 that. A failure, of course; I messed things horribly. 
 . . . You see why I came back here? And why I'm con- 
 tented to stay here?" 
 
 "I don't see," I said stubbornly. 
 
 "I'm a failure, a failure in everything," she said. "I'd 
 be a failure as your wife." 
 
 "I don't see," I reiterated helplessly. 
 
 She lost patience. "That's just it, you don't see and 
 you never would see my reasons. Life together would be 
 just one compromise after another. You're too selfish to 
 see why I can't do as you wish. 
 
 "Forgive me," she went on quickly. "We're both sel- 
 fish; perhaps I'm more so than you. I suppose I've been 
 encouraging you all this week, out of pure selfishness. I 
 should have known that it would come to this. I saw it 
 last night when Mrs. Fairleigh interrupted you. And 
 when I saw you this morning I knew." 
 
 "I came this morning to tell you that I was going 
 just that. The rest I couldn't help. I wanted to avoid 
 that, too." 
 
 "You too? Why? You saw that it was impossible 
 
 but ?" Her eyes darkened and she frowned. "You 
 
 asked me out of pity, then?" 
 
 "Not that, Bess. I didn't realize. I thought that I 
 could go away and forget. But I can't I can't." I 
 refused to consider that. 
 
 "You must," she said. 
 
 "Mrs. Fairleigh told you?" I said dully. 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 I remembered then that Mrs. Fairleigh had merely 
 voiced a suspicion of my interest in Lauretta. I stumbled 
 on blindly. 
 
 "About Lauretta Annersley?" 
 
 "No." 
 "We were engaged."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 311 
 
 She contemplated me for a moment in doubt. "You 
 had a right. You've not been tied to me." 
 
 "We are engaged," I said desperately. 
 
 I wanted to explain how I had wished to avoid this ; how 
 I had debated with myself the night before. I wanted to 
 explain the whole affair and remained silent while she 
 looked at me. 
 
 "Oh !" she said in a surprised little voice. She bit her 
 lips and groped for words. "I thought that I knew you 
 but this is worse. I seemed more desirable, I suppose. 
 You should have told me before." 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "You should have." She dropped her eyes and went 
 on in a low voice. "If I had yielded without knowing 
 this did you consider that?" 
 
 I was conscious of an immense weariness. "I think 
 that I considered it after a fashion last night," I an- 
 swered. "This morning I considered nothing save that I 
 love you. Nothing else matters." 
 
 She stood silent for a long time, building little heaps of 
 grain in the yellow bowl, flattening them out and then 
 building them up anew. Once or twice she started to 
 speak ; she looked up at me, then her lips quivered and she 
 looked down again. 
 
 "I think you had better go," she said finally. "You 
 have behaved abominably all week. So have I. But I 
 didn't know You'd better go before I say things 
 that I will regret." 
 
 She was on the verge of tears, like a hurt child. I had 
 hurt her immensely by my colossal selfishness ; had I tried 
 deliberately I could have hurt her no more. 
 
 "Go away," she said brokenly, and turned away to hide 
 her face from me. "I can't stand it. Go away." 
 
 I made a clumsy effort at speech and then stopped, 
 inarticulate. Everything I said seemed to make matters 
 worse. Without farewell I went up the path. 
 
 I looked back as I turned blindly into the street. I
 
 312 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 don't know I suppose that I turned with the vague hope 
 that she would stretch her arms out after me in longing 
 and regret. Hope is a thing of marvelous resiliency. 
 
 I saw her for an instant down between the gray aisles 
 of tree trunks, but her back was turned. Just a glimpse 
 I had of her tall, straight figure; I caught the glint of 
 showered grain and the moving about of yellow dots in 
 the shadow at her feet. Then the barberry hedge inter- 
 vened and I set my face toward the Shadow.
 
 CHAPTER THE FOURTH 
 
 "WELL, that's ended," I thought savagely, just as I 
 had twelve years before. And, just as then, it was not 
 ended. . . . 
 
 I was dazed, blinded, just as I had been long ago; this 
 sudden tidal wave of emotion had left me stranded help- 
 lessly. I remained in a blank daze until the Shadow 
 passed beyond the Point and met the heave of the ground 
 swell. Consciousness returned ; all that afternoon I paced 
 up and down the narrow cabin like a silly caged beast, 
 arguing, remonstrating, pausing to make senseless ges- 
 tures and then going on. I recalled things which I might 
 have said, arguments which I might have made. As 
 though arguments would have mattered ! My argument 
 came in sterile and shabby little rushes ; silences were suc- 
 ceeded by tag ends and fragments of remonstrance, plead- 
 ing, brow-beating statements. I recalled every objection 
 of hers and anwered them again. Not that it mattered 
 now, I knew, but I tried to justify myself, to convince 
 myself that I was right and she was wrong. 
 
 "Fool ! To tell her of Lauretta !" I remember shouting. 
 "There was no need of that." I had a fleeting per- 
 ception of how low I had fallen, paused, and then switched 
 violently to some other point. 
 
 I went around the great rock of her refusal, trying to 
 pry it from my road with phantom toothpicks. "You 
 know this; you must know this! Good God, why won't 
 you see it?" I fought to keep from seeing myself as 
 Elizabeth must have seen me selfish, stubborn, filled 
 with an intolerant self pride. All my banderlogic and I 
 must have gone on for hours was only an attempt to 
 313
 
 314 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 convince myself. I failed. However I expounded, re- 
 peated, contradicted myself in a weird saraband of 
 tenuous argument, the fact of her refusal remained, in- 
 disputable, staring. 
 
 I did foolish things, as the great mirror in the cabin 
 testified before I smashed it. 
 
 "You grinning ape!" I said, staring at my reflection, 
 and drove at it with a bronze paper weight. It stared in- 
 to blackness and the crash and tinkle of falling glass 
 awoke me. I surveyed the ruins stupidly for a moment, 
 fumbled around among the fragments of glass and cut my 
 hand. A faint realization of my madness came to me. 
 I locked the door on the wreckage and went on deck. 
 
 The Shadow was headed inshore, under a gray and low- 
 ering sky. Steel gray seas shouldered by overside, flawed 
 and blurred by transitory gusts of cold rain. The shore 
 loomed blue in the distance, gleamed in sunshine for a 
 moment under a slow moving break in the clouds, and 
 then faded and receded as the rain closed in. 
 
 "Id will blow," said Bergson over his shoulder. "There 
 were storm signals at Whidehaven as we left. Better we 
 should run in." 
 
 My mind caught and held his last words. Run in? 
 I had always run in ; always avoided strife, a fair weather 
 sailor all my life. Run in? To do what? To mope 
 about, to think. God ! 
 
 "How much gas have you, Kav?" I called down the 
 tube. 
 
 "Full tanks," came the answer. 
 
 "I'll take the wheel," I said to Bergson. He abandoned 
 it reluctantly. Under my guidance the Shadow swerved, 
 took a wave over the side, staggered and came about, 
 headed out into the open sea. Bergson looked at me, 
 shook his head, and went below. . . . 
 
 There my memory blurs and runs together into a gray 
 puddle. I remember the clouds ahead, lit for a time by a 
 pale reflection of the sunset behind us; I remember the
 
 FLOOD TIDE 315 
 
 clouds thickening and coming lower and the rain in- 
 creasing in heavier guests which blotted out the horizon. 
 Night came on and I held the Shadow on a drunken and 
 wabbly course out into the storm. 
 
 It was foolish rather than dramatic. I suppose I 
 should say that I fought against the power of the sea, 
 shouted defiances, worked myself up into a berserker 
 mood. In reality it was nothing of the sort. I had some- 
 thing of that idea when I headed out, but with the closing 
 in of night I lost it. 
 
 If I had any purpose at all in running out to sea, it 
 was to keep myself from thinking. I was successful in 
 that. There was no chance to think; the necessity of 
 keeping the Shadow head on to the seas kept me mentally 
 taut, shut out every other thought. The seas came in 
 ceaseless procession, looming out of the darkness ahead, 
 charging down and shouldering beneath the Shadow and 
 vanishing with an arm wrenching kick at the rudder. 
 Then another sea. And another. Between every two I 
 straightened the Shadow as well as I could, saw her 
 glistening bow rear, drip, and plunge again, peered 
 through the streaming windows of the wheel house and 
 braced myself for the next twist and heave. It was a 
 night of phantasms, of trying to stand still in a world 
 which rushed by in racing waves and slanting rain and 
 shrieking wind. And at intervals I was sick sea-sick 
 for the first time in my life. Through all my physical 
 misery I was conscious of a wan sense of satisfaction; 
 this was misery, but at least it was preferable to mental 
 torture. 
 
 Certain things stand out. Once I let my mind wander 
 back through the endless hours to Whitehaven. I roused 
 to find a great wall of gray and black hanging over me. 
 I closed my eyes as it crashed down; the Shadow 
 staggered, and the tender, lashed on deck, broke loose and 
 went bump bump bump toward the stern and vanished 
 overboard. And toward dawn we passed a fishing
 
 316 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 schooner, running before the wind with only a handker- 
 chief of a sail showing. She passed close to port ; I had a 
 fleeting glimpse of a dripping bowsprit, of lashed and 
 nested dories, of decks veiled in a gray smother of spume. 
 Two indistinct figures in yellow oilskins wrenched at her 
 wheel high in the lifted stern ; she crashed on and the end- 
 less procession 1 of seas resumed their shadowy march. 
 
 Soon after this so it seems in my memory, although 
 it might have been a matter of hours the wind flattened 
 and the rain thinned. The seas, no longer whipped on, 
 came more regularly. I was tired, inexpressibly tired 
 and weary. Bergson appeared, took the wheel from me 
 despite my feeble objections, and I went below to sleep 
 the sleep of the dead. . . . 
 
 When I woke a pale and watery sunshine had succeeded 
 the gale. We had reached one of the Nova Scotia coast 
 towns there was a malevolently smelly dock close aboard 
 and a fringe of inquisitive faces along the edge of it. We 
 stayed there two days and then started again for the 
 Annersleys. 
 
 But this served its purpose. It put an interval between 
 Elizabeth and Whitehaven and the present. When I 
 began to think again I was able to think sanely, or semi- 
 sanely, at least. 
 
 I must have disappointed the Annersleys. I was two 
 weeks overdue and failed to make any satisfactory explan- 
 ations of my tardiness. I think that I made some vague 
 references to motor trouble, an excuse which they 
 accepted the more readily when I sent the Shadow over 
 'o Bath for necessary repairs. I must have disappointed 
 them also in my account of Cadberry's expedition ; all 
 Iliat seemed ages ago and it cost me a struggle to recall 
 many of the incidents. 
 
 I found them in a converted farmhouse looking out over
 
 FLOOD TIDE 317 
 
 the bay and the clustered rocky islands. I have an 
 impression of one great room on the ground floor, low- 
 ceiled and with a yawning fireplace of field stone at either 
 end. Across the front was a broad porch facing an 
 orchard of gnarled and wind-bent apple trees, a cove with 
 the Warp alongside a little pier and neutral territories 
 of salt marsh between the sea and land; beyond this were 
 the wind-whipped expanses of the bay and the low clusters 
 of pine topped islands. At another time I should have 
 found the place highly delightful. I find that I recall but 
 little of it save what I set down here. 
 
 I moped about, sitting for long hours frowning and 
 thinking, passively resisting all efforts to draw me out. 
 I took my easel out to lonely places, spent long hours 
 alone, and came back with still virgin canvases. The 
 Annersleys were very kind to me, much kinder than I 
 deserved. After the first day or so, they let me go my 
 own way, valiantly making pretence that the business of 
 life went on as usual. But I remember that once or twice 
 I found Lauretta's gray eyes fixed on me with an ex- 
 pression of doubt and inquiry, an expression that vanished 
 as I looked up. . . . 
 
 I was torn loose from everything that had been my 
 life to this time torn loose mentally, which is a different 
 thing from my physical isolation at Casa Number Three. 
 All the structure of my life had fallen in dust and ashes 
 about my ears; it was hard to reconstruct and find the 
 cause of the downfall. It was not even reconstruction as 
 yet. I poked around among the fragments, still blinded 
 by the dust of the fall, trying to dig down and find some 
 solid foundation below this shattered ruin. 
 
 It was, in its entirety, a period of alternation. I 
 swung pendulum-wise from one emotion to another, from 
 conclusion to conclusion, seizing passionately upon one 
 conclusion and then abandoning it for a contradictory 
 one. 
 
 My first feeling was one of intense bewilderment, of
 
 318 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 puzzled groping about. I tried to attack the question as 
 in former times I had attacked some problem relating to 
 The Stores ; I tried to set down the facts, to weigh and 
 analyze. And I found that there were no facts. Love is 
 not to be reduced to figures and percentages. I still saw 
 no reason for Elizabeth's refusal to marry me. I went 
 at it from the wrong angle; instead of asking, "Why 
 should she?" I asked, "Why shouldn't she?" 
 
 In aU ways I repeated the process of twelve years be- 
 fore. I had grown no wiser in the ways of life or in the 
 ways of love, which is the same thing. 
 
 I arrived at no solution. I doubted everything. I had 
 lost all confidence in myself, in my own judgment, in 
 everything. I have never been a strong man, brutally 
 instantaneous of decison. I can decide on facts, but with- 
 out facts I oscillate helplessly. There was no solid basis 
 of truth here. Did I love Elizabeth? Did I love Laur- 
 etta? In God's name, did I love anything but myself? 
 I tortured myself with futile and needless questions which 
 I couldn't answer and which I knew I couldn't answer. 
 And even had I answered them I should have been no 
 nearer peace of mind. In all this there was not the 
 slightest question of marriage and possession. I put that 
 aside. That was another question and one which had 
 solved itself. 
 
 For through all this confused welter of thoughts there 
 drove one which became gradually clearer. Marriage 
 with Lauretta now became a manifest impossibility. Per- 
 haps I give myself undue credit, but I believe that I should 
 have seen this even had it been possible to write the 
 previous chapter differently. We had each built up rose 
 tinted images of the other during our separation ; dis- 
 illusionment was inevitable upon our coming together 
 again. It was unavoidable; even had we closed our eyes 
 to the truth we must have seen clearly at some time. 
 
 All my finely conceived images of Lauretta fell away 
 and vanished. Not that she wasn't as fine and sweet as I
 
 FLOOD TIDE 319 
 
 had imagined her ; she was all that, but in a different way. 
 I had pictured myself as her equal, as a comrade; I had 
 imagined things which we might share together. There 
 could be no sharing, I recognized clearly. We were in 
 harmony on many things, the difficulties which had shut 
 me off from Bess were not apparent here. But Lauretta 
 had one thing which I had lost. This was youth. There 
 were eighteen years between us, and eighteen years is an 
 obstacle which even semi-sober thought cannot ignore. I 
 had seen other couples try to ignore a difference of this 
 sort, and the results had not been pleasing. 
 
 Besides, you know, I had surprised that look in Laur- 
 etta's eyes. I knew that I was found out, unmasked. 
 
 I sat in the living room, a magazine on my knees, mak- 
 ing a pretence at reading and really staring out of the 
 windows and thinking. The three windows before me 
 framed a triptych of shimmering sea-scape and white 
 floating clouds ; above the sill the topsail of the sloop 
 drew closely along and vanished from sight. Peter and 
 Larry had gone fishing across the bay, after asking me 
 to accompany them and taking my refusal in good part. 
 Lauretta entered behind me, paused, and then came over 
 and sat on the window seat before me. She let slip the 
 leather strap over her shoulder and deposited her golf 
 clubs with a clatter, then extracted a club and poked at 
 my magazine. 
 
 "Don't be grumpy," she said, as it fell to the floor with 
 a flutter of leaves. "Come out and play a round with 
 me. You haven't been out to the links yet, have you?" 
 
 "Not yet, Laury," I answered. 
 
 "You haven't been anywhere," she said in sudden vex- 
 ation. She leaned over and swung the club in her tanned 
 little hands, making shots at the pattern of the rug. 
 "What's the trouble? Business?"
 
 320 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I shook ray head. 
 
 "You're not sick, are you?" she suggested. "You said 
 that Cadberry had fever, you know." 
 
 "I'm healthy enough," I responded gloomily. 
 
 "Then what?" She wrinkled her brows and sent the 
 magazines sliding across the floor with a well directed 
 blow. "You've moped around ever since you came here, 
 just sitting around and frowning. You've avoided every- 
 body. You run away when you see me coming. You're 
 worried over something, I know." 
 
 "I am worried," I admitted. 
 
 "I know," she said slowly. "It concerns me?" 
 
 I looked at her blankly. She had gone directly to the 
 heart of matters. 
 
 "You needn't tell me," she went on. "I know. I'm 
 thinking of it, too." 
 
 "It's hard work, isn't it?" 
 
 "Indeed it is," she agreed. "We haven't changed and 
 still we have." 
 
 "We see more clearly, that's all. Isn't that it?" 
 
 "I suppose so," she responded. "I hope so." 
 
 "It's a miserable business, Laury," I went on. I had 
 dreaded this discussion, but now that it was started I 
 found a relief in discussing it. "I haven't changed in my 
 feelings toward you and yet " 
 
 "Nor I either," she agreed and smiled faintly. "And 
 
 "There are other questions mixed with it," I suggested. 
 
 "There are," she said, and we sat for a moment gloom- 
 ily considering these other questions. We were fencing, 
 each waiting for the other to make the next move. 
 
 Finally she laughed and the deadlock was broken. 
 
 "There's no use in giving up everything just for that," 
 she said suddenly, rising and standing before me. "We 
 have the rest of the summer to mope and be miserable in. 
 And just now playing golf is more important. Come." 
 
 "Old Doc Annersley's Cure," she said smiling, as I rose
 
 FLOOD TIDE 321 
 
 and accompanied her. "Kills the blues and induces 
 cosmic harmony. Here, take Larry's bag, mine too. It's 
 the best medicine in the world ; get out and hit something." 
 
 "I think " I began. 
 
 "Don't think," she interrupted. "I don't want you to 
 think. You've been thinking too much. You know, after 
 a while you get all muddled up, like a man lost in the 
 woods. You just travel around in a circle and go over 
 and over the same ground. And you don't get any- 
 where." 
 
 "I really think " I persisted. 
 
 "But I asked you not to think," she interrupted again. 
 
 "I think that you're right," I completed. 
 
 "I knew that already," she sniffed scornfully. "Why 
 make such a parade of the obvious truth?" 
 
 She bedeviled me most unmercifully all afternoon, a 
 small flushed demon in a short skirt and tarn o' shanter, 
 always at my elbow, criticizing, commenting, suggesting, 
 wondering that she had known me so long without discov- 
 ering that I had ten thumbs and two left hands. 
 
 August the First came. I remembered with a twinge 
 of regret that I had promised to return to work on that 
 date. The old order was to have passed with July ; after 
 that my life would be on another plane. It was. I touch 
 the common lot of humanity on that point. 
 
 The incident at Sarajevo had occurred while we were 
 coming north from Yucatan. We had missed that en- 
 tirely ; when we reached New York other events had swept 
 it from the front page. The smouldering, the first wisps 
 of smoke and the crackle and dart of flames had passed 
 as unnoticed as this first spark; the first maneuvering 
 and futile exchange of telegrams had taken place during 
 the week at Whitehaven. I had missed all that. Only 
 after I reached the Annersleys did war seem more than a
 
 322 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 bare possibility; even at the last moment it was thought 
 that the storm would pass over. Clouds were forever 
 gathering and dispersing. This too would pass. War 
 we had outgrown that. We thought of the growth of 
 Socialism, arbitration treaties, the Hague, and were com- 
 forted. "The bankers won't let them fight," said Peter, 
 and I believed him. War, save as police duty, was a thing 
 of the past. 
 
 It seems strange to recall these pre-bellum arguments 
 and opinions. We denied the possibility of a horrible 
 thing in the same spirit which moves men to deny the 1 
 existence of crime and poverty. We like to contemplate 
 pleasant things, and one of the easiest ways of securing 
 the pleasant is by denying the existence of the unpleasant. 
 I know, because I have followed that way all my life. 
 Humanity in general is no better. I find some slight con- 
 solation in that thought. 
 
 Then August the First came, the first of a long line of 
 red kings, and the impossibility became an actuality. Yet 
 it was all marvelously distant and unreal ; I remember the 
 first days of the war only as a shadowy background of 
 my own troubles. The world was all wrong and I was 
 part of it. 
 
 Prophets shifted their ground and began to proclaim 
 that at the worst the war could last but three months 
 six months a year; only the most visionary went beyond 
 that limit. Annersley became a short-war man, after 
 recovering from the surprising fact that the nations had 
 flown in the face of his prophecies of no war at all. 
 "Three months, then exhaustion. The masses will rise," 
 he said wisely. And he has stuck to that opinion ever 
 since; the end of the war is always three months ahead. 
 
 There was much talk of the Kronprinzessvn Cecilie. 
 There was more talk of naval activities off the coast. 
 All lights were mysterious lights. There were rumors of 
 a sea fight off the islands ; Larry heard the firing and tore 
 off in the Warp. He returned with the news that some
 
 FLOOD TIDE 828 
 
 one had been blasting for a foundation on one of the outer 
 islands. He was very down in the mouth. Two of his 
 intimate pals were abroad and he had missed accom- 
 panying them only by the narrowest of margins. He 
 seemed fated to miss everything. 
 
 Larry went over after the mail each afternoon, making 
 the trip in the Warp and coming back laden with all the 
 available papers. He devoured every line of war news 
 and then spent the rest of the day in bewailing the hard 
 fate which had condemned him to a life of inaction. 
 
 He was especially bitter upon his return with the mail 
 that evening; the papers were full of wildly inaccurate 
 accounts and as a crowning sorrow he had received a 
 letter from one of his pals, then in Paris. It was over 
 a week old, full of hasty surmises and details of the pre- 
 liminary movements. He lifted up his voice and wept. 
 
 " 'Will have a lot to tell you in September,' " he read, 
 and looked around in disgust. "And a fine lot I'll have 
 to tell them." 
 
 "Count yourself lucky," grunted Peter without looking 
 up from his paper. "They're not seeing so much of it 
 as you think. And most likely you'd get your fool head 
 shot off." 
 
 Larry muttered some unfilial sentiment. "They're 
 going to get a bunch together and form a Foreign 
 Legion," he announced as he read on. "I'd like to see 
 Chuck and old Fox Trott going around in baggy red 
 pants." 
 
 He subsided to silence and we read on in the waning 
 light. Namur, Liege, Brussels the names stand out yet. 
 I soon tired of it and watched the silent gray army of the 
 invading mist conquer the salt swale below, carry the out- 
 works of the orchard and then creep and flow along 
 the ragged aisles toward us. I watched that for a while 
 and then watched Lauretta. She, too, had discarded 
 her papers and frowned out over the silent mist. Think- 
 ing, perhaps. I thought too.
 
 324 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Peter discarded his sheets with an annunciatory rustle. 
 He cleared his throat. "Three months I'll give them," he 
 reiterated, and we foresaw another exposition of his rea- 
 sons for such a period. 
 
 "By the way," said Larry from the steps below and 
 fumbled in his pocket. "I'd forgotten. There's a tele- 
 gram for you 1 ." 
 
 He tossed it over to me and went on with his reading. 
 
 From Marks, I thought as I ripped open the envelope. 
 Probably some reminder that the date set for my return 
 had passed. He could wait. 
 
 But I had guessed wrong. It was from Stowell, terse 
 and abrupt and cryptic. "Come back. Situation bad 
 growing worse. We need you." Just that much and 
 never an explanation of what situation was meant nor 
 exactly who needed me. Stowell always made the irritat- 
 ing assumption that I knew more than I did. What situ- 
 ation? Something connected with his affairs, probably. 
 The only fact that the telegram conveyed was that Sto- 
 well was in some sort of trouble and needed me. 
 
 I handed the telegram to Peter; he stopped midway in 
 a fine passage concerning modern fortifications, and read. 
 
 "But what is it?" he said blankly, and turned the tele- 
 gram over in search of concealed information. 
 
 "I've no idea," I said, "beyond that I must go as soon 
 as possible." 
 
 "Not to-night," he objected. "There are no trains. 
 You might get one from Bath, but how about it, 
 Laury?" 
 
 "A hurry call, is it?" she asked. "Very much of a 
 hurry?" 
 
 She appealed to me. I knew what thought was upper- 
 most in her mind; to leave now would leave an unsettled 
 question behind me. But there was no help for it. 
 
 "No," she decided abruptly. "There are no trains." 
 
 "The Shadow," suggested Larry. 
 
 But the Shadow was out of commission at Bath.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 325 
 
 "I know," said Laury suddenly. "The Boston boat. 
 We can catch her at Popham she's always late, you 
 know." 
 
 Her eyes met mine for a moment. "I'll go over with 
 you," she answered my unspoken question. 
 
 We swung out into the dusk, circled away and headed 
 south. "... luck," Annersley called from the string 
 piece of the dock, his voice penetrating the roar of the 
 motor. ". . . back . . . straightened out." 
 
 I waved my hand in answer and he faded to a dim blur 
 of white as the Warp drove on. Larry shouted back over 
 his shoulder and Lauretta made some adjustment in the 
 motors ; the roar flattened to a steady penetrating drone ; 
 we gathered speed and two wings of spray spattered and 
 wavered out over the wrinkled sea. Behind us the shore 
 dwindled to a dim line; beyond the fringe of outer islands 
 a great star winked and flared and kept pace with us as 
 we swished along. Lauretta made a final adjustment and 
 switched on a tiny glow lamp, then came swaying aft and 
 sat beside me, wiping her hands on a bit of waste. 
 
 "Is it anything serious, do you suppose?" she asked. 
 
 "The telegram? I don't know. Stowell is in some sort 
 of trouble. I may be able to help him. And perhaps not. 
 I've been away so long, you know. It may be anything." 
 
 Silence fell between us ; the drone of the motor and the 
 hiss and curl of the following wake shut out all else. 
 
 "But you'll come back again," she asserted presently. 
 
 "I'll try to," I promised. I had no idea what lay before 
 me. I didn't care. I might return, or I might find it im- 
 possible to get away for the rest of the summer. My 
 month was up. The war new complications the 
 chances were that I shouldn't return. But to go away 
 and leave our question unsettled, a sword hanging over 
 our heads No. That, at least, could be settled.
 
 326 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "Have you decided?" I asked. I knew that the subject 
 was uppermost in her mind, as it was in mine. 
 
 She shook her head slowly. "Not yet," she answered 
 in a low voice, drawing the bunch of waste slowly through 
 her fingers. "Sometimes I think one way; sometimes an- 
 other. It's awfully hard to decide such things, isn't it?" 
 
 I knew how hard it was. "But there's only one con- 
 clusion, Laury. We might as well make it now. ... I 
 may come back I'll try to but I may not. It's no 
 good leaving things unsettled. We know as much now 
 as we ever will. . . . We can't go on." 
 
 I caught her answer, barely audible above the thrum of 
 machinery. "I think that too," she said. 
 
 "We can't go on," I repeated, and stopped miserably. 
 "I'm looking ahead, seeing the future in a new light. . . . 
 I'm nearly forty, you know. If we could stay as we were 
 last year but that's impossible. We've changed. I'm 
 ten years older now. We've been good friends, we always 
 will be, I hope. Marriage isn't just being good friends; 
 it's more than that. I know that I would be happy. It 
 would mean the solution of many things that trouble me. 
 But you wouldn't be happy, I mean. You might for a 
 while but I'm getting old. I feel it. I'm looking back, 
 not looking ahead. If I considered myself alone this is 
 the last thing I'd say. But I'm trying to look at it from 
 your side. I know myself better than you do. I'm not 
 much good." 
 
 She made a gestvire of negation. I stopped. Had I 
 gone on I must have told her of Elizabeth. That was 
 something apart. I wanted her to remember only the 
 better side of me. 
 
 "You see, don't you?" I appealed. 
 
 "Just as you do. You make it very easy for me." 
 
 "Don't," I said clumsily. "I think I'm trying to make 
 it easy for myself." 
 
 "I dragged you into it," she said penitently. 
 
 "No and if you did I'm glad. I shall always remem-
 
 FLOOD TIDE 327 
 
 ber it as something wonderfully good and clean. Not an 
 unpleasant thing connected with it." 
 
 "No, there isn't." She turned with a despairing little 
 gesture, a faint smile about her eyes. "Why aren't you 
 ten years younger?" 
 
 "Why aren't you ten years older?" 
 
 She found courage to laugh. "I don't want to be. 
 But if you only were 
 
 "It's too late to change that now. That's the trouble, 
 isn't it? I've been masquerading as something I'm not. 
 And now I'm found out." 
 
 She nodded soberly. The stars peered out as we ripped 
 along through the gathering dusk ; the wind came in gusts 
 against our faces, mingled with the spray of our passage ; 
 a strand of her dusky hair whipped loose and caressed 
 my cheek with soft fingers. She looked up, and I caught 
 the flash of her smile in the glow of the lamp. 
 
 "There'll be no letters to burn; that's one thing we 
 avoid," she said. "And we've been engaged nearly a 
 year! By rights, you know, I ought to have a bundle of 
 letters tied in a faded pink ribbon, to read and be mis- 
 erable over on rainy days. You've cheated me." 
 
 She spoke lightly, and yet there was a catch in her 
 voice. 
 
 "There will be no awkward reminders," I agreed. 
 
 "No one ever knew about it but you and me." She 
 seemed to take some consolation in that thought. 
 
 "Mrs. Fairleigh suspected," I said. 
 
 "She's always thinking something of that sort," re- 
 sponded Lauretta absently. "When did you see her?" 
 
 "Last week. She's at Whitehaven this year. I stopped 
 there on the way up." 
 
 "I didn't know," she said, and I caught her frown as 
 she wrinkled her brows over some inner problem. 
 
 There was so much that she didn't know. I had hurt 
 her ; she was still in doubt. She still thought that I was a 
 decent man, hurting myself for her good. I was trying to
 
 328 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 save myself something unpleasant and I knew it. Why 
 couldn't I tell her why I had stopped at Whitehaven? 
 Why didn't I? I was trying to persuade myself that I 
 did a high and noble thing because it was right not be- 
 cause it was easiest. "Masquerading," I had said. Still 
 masquerading. Trying to keep her respect when I 
 couldn't respect myself. Tell her. 
 
 I would. 
 
 "You know " I started, and got no further. 
 
 "I haven't treated you right," she said suddenly. 
 "You've been so so white; and I've lied to you. I'm a 
 mean little sneak." 
 
 She gulped and then went on desperately. 
 
 "You would be surprised hurt if I became engaged 
 to Ross DeWitt the architect, you know?" 
 
 "Why no, Laury," I answered, "but " 
 
 "I saw a great deal of him during the winter," she went 
 on hurriedly. "I'd have written to you about him but I 
 couldn't. He asked me in June. He didn't know, you 
 see? And I couldn't tell him." 
 
 "You poor kid ! And you turned him down ?" 
 
 "Yes." Her hand clenched in a sudden gesture. "No, 
 I didn't. I told him to wait." 
 
 I had never seen Lauretta cry never had suspected 
 that she could. But now her half averted face was drawn 
 in lines of misery ; she caught her breath in a sudden sob 
 and wiped her eyes with the grimy fragment of cotton 
 waste. 
 
 "I'm a darned fool and a d-darned liar and I don't 
 know what you'll think of me," she sobbed. 
 
 And I laughed. I laughed uncontrollably, hysterically, 
 without in the least intending anything of the sort. I 
 laughed until the tears came, strangled and choked and 
 struggled in vain to control myself. I tried to stop and 
 couldn't. Larry looked back and shouted an inquiry; I 
 could only wave helplessly at him and go on laughing. 
 Lauretta looked at me in amazement at first, then she
 
 FLOOD TIDE 329 
 
 drew away and stiffened in anger as I choked down the 
 final spasms and drew breath again. 
 
 "I don't see -" she began sullenly. 
 
 "Believe me, I'm not laughing at you," I said as ser- 
 iously as I could. "At myself, perhaps. I don't know 
 just what I did laugh at. I didn't mean to." 
 
 "Did I say anything funny?" she demanded, very digni- 
 fied. 
 
 "No. I congratulate you on DeWitt. He's all right. 
 But this whole affair between us is so utterly absurd. I 
 told you that I stopped at Whitehaven. Do you know 
 why?" I grew sober at the recollection. "I asked some 
 one else to marry me, Laury. I was just about to tell 
 you when you told me about DeWitt." 
 
 She looked at me with wide eyes in the dusk, her lips 
 parted in an unspoken accusation. 
 
 "Did I know about DeWitt?" I defended. "We're a 
 bad lot, you and I." 
 
 Her expression softened and she broke into a smile. 
 
 "Aren't we, though?" she exclaimed, and then and I 
 swear there was a note of jealousy in her voice: "Who 
 was it? Lotta Fairleigh?" 
 
 "Good Lord, no ! No one that you know, Laury. We 
 were engaged once when I first came to New York 
 we broke it off. And seeing her again. . . . You must 
 have been a little girl in short skirts then." 
 
 "And so I am to congratulate you, too?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 She caught her breath and was silent for a space. 
 "That's what has been worrying you, then. I'm sorry. 
 
 "Was that why you fell in love with me because I 
 resembled her?" she said presently, coming to the end of 
 some line of thought. "Since she came first, when I 
 was a so-little girl." 
 
 "There's no comparison, Laury; I've avoided making 
 one," I answered. She showed signs of going on with
 
 330 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 further questions. "Please don't. I'm nearly mad with 
 thinking of it." 
 
 "I wonder," she said after a time. "I wonder if did 
 she and Ross 
 
 She fumbled over it, but I caught her meaning. 
 
 "No," I answered. "I think that they had nothing 
 to do with the question between us. There is a con- 
 nection there couldn't help but be. Still, they're out- 
 side of this. They just showed us before it was too 
 late." 
 
 "I suppose that's it," she assented soberly. "I hope 
 it is." 
 
 The land to the right fell away abruptly and we 
 swung into the shadowy lower reach of the river. Ahead 
 of us and to starboard were the low banked lights of 
 the steamer; her wake gleamed white and ghostlike be- 
 hind her, a white reflection of the black smoke above. 
 Larry switched on the searchlight on the cowl before 
 and wigwagged frantically; an answering blast came 
 booming back to us. 
 
 "Just make it," his voice was whipped back to us. 
 
 We drove on. The lights came nearer; we swung 
 over and followed her wake, hissing and spinning over- 
 side. She whistled for the landing; the muffled clangor 
 of bells came to us ; a white welter of foam grew out from 
 beneath her churning paddles in widespread wings. We 
 drove through the waves raised by her passage, pitched 
 wildly for a moment as the bow thumped and sent out 
 hissing showers of spray, and then circled ahead. The 
 lights of the steamer blended with those of the wharf; 
 we heard the thump of ropes, the rattle of the gang- 
 plank; a warning shout sounded from the high darkness 
 of her pilot house. The insistent clamor of our motor 
 decreased in volume; the bow settled slowly and we stole 
 within the circle of radiance. Faces peered down on us 
 from the tiered decks as we slid alongside ; Larry clutched
 
 FLOOD TIDE 331 
 
 at the projecting deck and we stopped. I swung my bag 
 over the rail and leaped up after it. 
 
 Below me the launch lay in the dark shadow of the 
 overhang; their two faces, dimly illuminated, stood out 
 disembodied. The gangplank rattled inboard, a prelim- 
 inary swirl of the paddles and Larry shoved out. 
 
 "Let us know when to expect you," he called as the 
 paddles churned mightily and set the Warp rocking. 
 Lauretta reached for the throttle and the Warp sent an 
 answering swirl of froth against the spume from the 
 paddles. We moved slowly apart. Lauretta stood in the 
 stern, looking up and back at me as the long shape neared 
 the outer edge of light She stood immobile for a moment, 
 a shadowy white figure against the darkness, her face a 
 dim blur. Then her arm shot up in a gesture of farewell. 
 I gestured blindly in reply ; a staccato roar of explosions 
 and the stern light of the Warp swung off in a wide circle, 
 faded, twinkled, reappeared, and vanished.
 
 CHAPTER THE FIFTH 
 
 I EEACHED New York at noon. There creeps into my 
 mind the memory of a discussion which went on behind me 
 all the way down from Boston ; a discussion which started 
 amicably enough on the subject of straw braid and 
 leather findings between Boston and Providence, shifted 
 ground to the Masurian Lakes and Belgium between 
 Providence and New London and finally died away into 
 frigid silence broken by snorts of contempt after we had 
 passed New Haven. I remember a wilderness of dis- 
 carded newspapers along the aisle of the subway train, 
 the crowds before the bulletin boards in Park Row, the 
 inevitable orator at the foot of the statue as I crossed 
 to StowelPs office. 
 
 I found quiet instead of the confusion which I had 
 dimly expected. Stowell was out, I was languidly in- 
 formed by the girl in the outer office. "Any message?" 
 I gave her my name and she looked at me with sudden 
 interest. 
 
 "He is at your office," she said, and reached for the 
 telephone. "Shall I call him?" 
 
 "Don't bother; I'm going right over." 
 
 I went down again through the streets, crowded now 
 with the noon hour throng, looking at the passing faces 
 in sudden distaste. Once, long ago, I had been glad to 
 get back to this ; now I found it all ugly, singularly futile 
 and meaningless. 
 
 The ecclesiastical walls and vaults of the outer office 
 
 still echoed faintly with the buzz and hum of voices and 
 
 ruffled papers and muffled typewriters ; I noticed, however, 
 
 that the buzz died away as I approached and sprang up 
 
 332
 
 FLOOD TIDE 333 
 
 again as I passed. Heads were turned, and faces stared 
 at me. I was conscious of a feeling of annoyance; I was 
 a stranger, I knew, but there seemed no need of making 
 my appearance an occasion of wonder. I nodded to 
 Noyes, the Group C manager, as I passed his desk; he 
 rose and caught up with me, gesticulating with crumpled 
 papers. I caught the tag end of a question. 
 
 "See Marks," I said impatiently, and waved him off. 
 He gaped in a queer fashion and fell behind. 
 
 Stowell looked up as I entered and shut out the sub- 
 dued murmur behind me. He was seated at Marks' desk, 
 papers piled methodically about him. 
 
 "Well," he said, and rose to greet me. He had the 
 hushed and tiptoeing air of a mourner at a funeral. 
 "Where were you?" 
 
 "Down in Maine. I came as quickly as I could. . . . 
 But you must have known ; I got your telegram." 
 
 "I sent seven," he answered, "and took a chance on one 
 of them finding you." He paused, and looked at me in 
 silence. 
 
 "Well, what's the trouble?" I asked. 
 
 He remained silent, fingering the piles of paper be- 
 fore him in evident embarrassment. His attitude nettled 
 me ; I had come prepared to battle with unguessed terrors 
 on his behalf. Now he seemed afraid to tell me. 
 
 "Come out of it," I said abruptly. "You called me on 
 account of some trouble, I know. Who's the victim?" 
 
 "You are," he admitted. 
 
 "Then why didn't you say so? I've been imagining all 
 sorts of things about you, from divorce to embezzlement. 
 What's the trouble? Fire? Strike? More Pingree?" 
 
 "You've lost The Stores," he said abruptly. "Of 
 course I can't say for sure," he went on hurriedly, "that's 
 just a rough guess and it may not be so bad as that. 
 There are many things that I don't dare to touch," and 
 he gestured toward the piled papers, "and a great many 
 things missing. I'm telling you the worst, you see."
 
 334 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "I can stand it," I said after a momentary pause. "I'm 
 getting used to losing things. But where do you come 
 in on this?" 
 
 "I've been here since what's to-day? Thursday? 
 since Tuesday morning. Marks called me Monday night 
 late. I didn't recognize his voice at first ; what he said 
 was nothing more than a jumble, anyway. All I got 
 out of it was that he wanted to see me in the morning 
 that and the information that everything had gone to 
 hell. I agreed; I thought he was talking about the war. 
 But I came down Tuesday; waited around; no Marks. 
 Coupled with what he'd said the night before I began to 
 suspect that something was wrong. I did a little snoop- 
 ing around there were papers all over the office for any 
 fool to see, you know and I got just a flash of the 
 whole trouble. Then that tall man in the second group 
 section 
 
 "Fisher?" I volunteered. 
 
 "Fisher came in here looking for orders and I acted 
 on a hunch and told him what to do. I said that I'd 
 been sent for by Marks which was nothing more than 
 the truth and told him not to bother me. It took me 
 all Tuesday to get on your trail, and the rest of the time 
 I've been trying to piece things together. ... I stayed 
 all last night." 
 
 "You look it. ... But what has Marks done?" I 
 asked. "Why the devil isn't he here?" 
 
 "He won't be in," Stowell answered slowly, and nodded 
 in answer to my unspoken question. "They found him 
 this morning up state in that big car of his. . . . Either 
 driving blindly to get away from himself or going with 
 some idea of getting into Canada. I don't know. There's 
 nothing illegal, as far as I can find out. Trying to get 
 away from himself, I imagine. . . . The car was a mess, 
 all smashed. . . . And the wheel caught him under the 
 chin." He made a gesture of repugnance, and stopped. 
 
 "A rotten mess, isn't it?" he said finally.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 335 
 
 "It must be," I agreed. "I can't imagine " But 
 
 there were so many things that I couldn't imagine. 
 
 In the silence that followed, some one tried the door. 
 Stowell barked an impatient order and the interruption 
 ceased. He went on. 
 
 "Greenwood and Lyons were in here yesterday. 
 They're in on it they never forgave Marks, you know. 
 I persuaded them to postpone action until we found 
 either you or Marks. . . . You're both found and we 
 might as well go ahead." He reached for the telephone 
 and then paused. "I'm not sure, but as nearly as I can 
 determine, Marks has hocked the whole business with 
 them and thrown it all into stocks. Why? Why does 
 any one try that game? . . . And when the Exchange 
 closed. . . . He had some object, I suppose. That game 
 always attracted him ; you remember how he used to pore 
 over the financial news even in the days of the old officer 
 He must have started last fall, when you left, and kept 
 getting in deeper and deeper. I've found some notes 
 which give me a hint of that." 
 
 He dropped his mournful manner and assumed one of 
 forced and wearied cheerfulness. "We'll plug through 
 somehow," he said. "It's probably not so bad as I've 
 painted it." 
 
 "I don't care how bad it is," I answered. 
 
 He looked at me in doubt. 
 
 "I don't care," I repeated, and spoke the truth. This 
 question of coming back to work had troubled me during 
 the past week ; now it seemed settled. To come back and 
 face years of purposeless building had been unthinkable. 
 . . . Stowell's blank face looked at me reproachfully 
 over the mouthpiece of the phone ; I remembered that he 
 knew nothing of the happenings of the past two weeks. 
 
 "No; I'm not out of my head," I said. "That's all 
 right. What's the first move?" 
 
 "Call in Greenwood and Lyons," he said after a mo-
 
 336 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 ment. "I've no status here, you know, save what is 
 founded on pure bluff. But you don't care?" 
 
 "There are worse things than this, Dick. Call them 
 in and we'll get started. You'll stay and see it through 
 with me?" 
 
 "Surely." 
 
 He fixed his eyes on me and slowly wagged his head 
 from side to side. With that expression of wonder still 
 on his face, he lifted the receiver. 
 
 "Well let's dig into it," he said shortly. 
 
 It was past midnight when we let ourselves out into 
 the deserted streets. We went along wearily; all that 
 afternoon and far into the night we had wrangled with 
 Greenwood. Dick showed the effect of the strain ; I know 
 that I felt it. We had both been without sleep for two 
 days. A faint suggestion of coolness came on the breeze 
 from the river ; from far down Broadway came the echo- 
 ing clatter of a street sweeper, a motor driven ant, gar- 
 nering by night. We turned off into a side street. Sto- 
 well stopped. 
 
 "Let's eat," he said, and we descended the steps of 
 an all night restaurant, one of these places that lurk 
 below the street level and send out rays of light across 
 the sidewalk to ensnare the stray and infrequent pass- 
 erby. Stowell ordered from a menu in purple ink; I 
 awakened to a dim recognition of the place. I had never 
 entered it before, but the type had once been familiar 
 a pressed metal ceiling of glaring whiteness, electric fan 
 playing on the pastry, mirrors shrouded in whorls and 
 scallops of whiting, and chairs constructed with total dis- 
 regard of the human frame. Stowell and I had' often 
 eaten postponed suppers in such places years ago, coming 
 home from midnight sessions of planning. Nothing 
 seemed changed, not even the waiter's apron.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 337 
 
 Despite his boasted hunger Stowell ate but little, 
 watching me as he stirred a huge cup of coffee and drew 
 thoughtfully at a cigar. 
 
 "Miserable business," he commented finally. 
 
 I came slowly out of my foggy recognition of the place. 
 "Keeping a joint like this, you mean?" I hazarded. 
 
 He waved my answer aside impatiently. "This whole 
 matter at the office." 
 
 "Yes ; miserable indeed," I agreed. "And it will get 
 worse as we get further into it. To-day we just scraped 
 the surface." 
 
 He made dingy circles on the marble top of the table 
 with the bottom of his cup. "We'll find out what is below 
 as we go on," he said absently. "But there are two 
 questions ' 
 
 He made a chain of circles before he went on. "Two 
 questions," he resumed. "First, why Marks let all this 
 come about. It looks like deliberate wreckage, although 
 that's out of the question. Greenwood knows the answer 
 to that and says that he doesn't. . . . We'll have to piece 
 that out as we go along." 
 
 "And the second question?" 
 
 "You say that this doesn't matter," he stated abruptly. 
 
 "It doesn't," I answered ; "I'm not sorry. About Marks 
 that's another matter ; I'm sorry for that. But for my 
 part of it I don't care." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I don't, that's all." 
 
 "I see only one reason," he concluded. "You knew 
 what Marks was doing and stood ready to accept the 
 result. Am I right?" 
 
 "No. I have been in the office twice in the past year; 
 whatever Marks has done has been done without my 
 knowledge." 
 
 "I thought so," he said. "Then what else has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 I looked at him, startled. "You know?"
 
 338 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "I guessed," he said, shaking his head. "Go on ; start 
 somewhere." 
 
 "It began at Whitehaven," I said after a moment. 
 
 "When were you there?" he interrupted. 
 
 "Two weeks ago." 
 
 He nodded to himself. "I had a mental bet on that," 
 he explained. 1 "One of my telegrams went there." 
 
 "I'll go back beyond that," I decided. "You remember 
 the Annersleys? You met them last summer, I think." 
 
 "I remember," he said. "There was a daughter, wasn't 
 there?" 
 
 I started there and told him the entire affair, from the 
 building of the Shack down to the catching of the Boston 
 boat the night before. It was a relief to tell some one 
 these things ; more of a relief than I had ever imagined 
 confession could be. Over some parts of it I gagged and 
 hesitated; I still had some small fragments of pride 
 remaining and it was hard to show myself as doing the 
 wrong thing. I got through it, somehow, and felt the 
 better for it. During the whole of my recital Dick 
 smoked thoughtfully, without interrupting me, mobilizing 
 and demobilizing the salt cellars and mustard pots on 
 the table before him. Infrequent customers came and 
 went; the waiter shuffled and scuffed about, eying us 
 curiously. 
 
 "You see, don't you?" I concluded. "I could have come 
 back to work here but why should I? It would be 
 work without an object, it would take up my time, keep 
 me going and that's all. Perhaps I might have de- 
 veloped a new interest in The Stores, something after 
 Marks' interest, building for the sake of building, play- 
 ing the game for the game's sake. I don't know. That 
 always seemed a useless thing to me. That's what I tried 
 to get away from. . . . But I should have come to that, 
 even knowing that I had no desire to do it. That way is 
 closed to me now and I'm glad of it ; I'd have drifted 
 into it surely just because it was easiest."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 339 
 
 Stowell crushed out the fire of his cigar on the tray 
 and padded out the glowing sparks. 
 
 "You take these matters too seriously women love 
 and all that," he said slowly. "You've gone without 
 them so long. And now you discover them and they fill 
 your whole horizon." 
 
 He paused, embarrassed. 
 
 "I suppose I do exaggerate their importance, Dick. 
 And yet it isn't these things alone. They're on the 
 surface; and yet not entirely on the surface. They have 
 passed, and you've seen a ship pass through a shallow 
 channel and leave it boiling with muck and oily scum 
 behind? It's so with me. . . . No; I'm a spoiled child, 
 but I'm not throwing away my rattle because I can't have 
 the moon. Get that idea out of your head. I've been 
 thinking about myself lately, seeing myself in a new 
 light. My channel of life has been stirred to the bottom. 
 It's not pretty. I've been going wrong all my life, and 
 this gives me a chance to get out of it before I go wrong 
 further. I can start over again after some fashion." 
 
 "You've lost your grip," he accused. 
 
 I considered that. "No ; I think not. I never had any 
 grip to lose. I'm not discouraged, disheartened, not 
 disappointed, not dis anything but disgusted with myself. 
 And that only faintly; disgust implies hope and I'm too 
 far gone for that. I'm not afraid ; anything but that . . . 
 I've drifted long enough ; I'm on a lee shore and I'm not 
 trying to claw off. I'm going ashore alone; that's one 
 satisfaction. I've hurt no one save myself and Bess. 
 And I don't know whether she's hurt or not now. I 
 think that she is beyond being hurt by any action of 
 mine. She seems to have arrived at a state where such 
 things don't matter. Not that she has lost the capacity 
 for feeling, but she has got down to some solid basis 
 of fact that I can't touch or even imagine. These things 
 seem to pass over her. Think what her life is what it 
 has been! And it's all my fault. She's made a rotten
 
 340 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 marriage, given up everything she once hoped for been 
 a failure in every way. And yet she has made a success 
 of it. Out of all the ruin that other people have made 
 of her life first her father, then her mother, then myself 
 and lastly Learoyd we've all had a hand in it out of 
 all this she has built up something and is happy. I've 
 always gone along as I pleased, consulted nothing but my 
 own caprice and I'm not happy. I've gone from one 
 self-made illusion to the next, and got nothing out of it. 
 She has gone from one disillusionment to another and is 
 content. I've ridden the crest of the wave; now it has 
 fallen and I'm jetsam just jetsam. It all comes home 
 to me at once; I've done nothing more in life than make 
 myself unhappy and make her unhappy too. ... I want 
 to make it up to her and I know that I can do that no 
 more than I can change the course of the stars by blowing 
 bubbles at them. I don't regret my own failure I can 
 stand that but the realization that I've made a failure 
 of her life too It hurts, I tell you, it hurts." 
 
 "I know, I know," said Stowell as I paused. "We all 
 feel that way sometimes. Everything seems wrong." 
 
 "You don't know," I answered. "You can't. Your 
 wrongs are all little ones, not the product of a lifetime." 
 
 "Are you sure that you are right now?" he asked. 
 
 "No; I'm not. Perhaps I'm going to the other ex- 
 treme. I'm sure of nothing, absolutely nothing save that 
 I was wrong before. Look here " 
 
 He held up a warning hand. "Not so loud," he said. 
 The waiter passed us with a curious glance; I became 
 aware that a beefy necked man in a celluloid collar was 
 listening visibly from a neighboring table. 
 
 "I don't care whether they hear or not," I said. "They 
 probably think I'm drunk." But Stowell's interruption 
 had broken my thread of thought and we sat silent for 
 a time, to the evident displeasure of the fat necked 
 person.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 341 
 
 "There's The Stores," Stowell resumed. "You've been 
 a success in that." 
 
 "I wonder," I answered slowly. "Is money making 
 your idea of success?" 
 
 He stumbled and groped for a reply ; I cut in midway 
 on his answer. "I don't mean to criticize your standards. 
 I should have asked that question in a different way; is 
 that the right idea of success? And have I been success- 
 ful even in that? Have I created better things even 
 there? I have imagined things, not created them. You 
 and Marks and the rest did the creating. Any fool can 
 tell how things should be; making them so is another 
 matter. The Stores is the work of the men who did the 
 building, not the one fool who did the imaginative part 
 of the work." 
 
 "How much would any of us accomplish unaided?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Not much," I concluded. "But that is beside the main 
 question. Granted that the creation of The Stores was 
 mine. Is that on the credit or debit side of the ledger? 
 . . . Damn The Stores ! . . . Bess and I had our first 
 break over that ; I thought more of The Stores than I did 
 of her. I had my choice, and I made it. A good choice; 
 I've hated The Stores since the day I made my choice 
 between that and Bess. . . . Has The Stores brown hair 
 and blue eyes and a dear, twisted, one-sided smile? Does 
 the thought of The Stores bring tears to my eyes? Can 
 this creation of mine talk to me? be my wife? bear my 
 children? . . . Christ!" 
 
 Through a misty blur I saw Stowell look at me cur- 
 iously. "I wish that I knew the other side of this," he 
 said slowly. "If I knew what Bess really thought 
 
 "I've told you," I said wearily. "And would it matter 
 if you did know?" 
 
 "Perhaps not. But I'd b'ke to know. . . . Let's go 
 home and get some sleep."
 
 342 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 m 
 
 Gradually, as we worked along, we untangled the con- 
 fusion that Marks had left behind him, finding loose ends 
 and running them down to their origin, slowly producing 
 some semblance of order out of chaos. He had allowed 
 the business ' to fall into a state of incredible disorder 
 during these last few months; the fact that The Stores 
 had held together at all was a tribute to the strength 
 with which he had built. Subsidiary companies had fallen 
 away and developed to cross purposes; contracts had 
 been neglected; everything had been postponed to the last 
 possible moment and then apparently forgotten. There 
 had been a relaxation, a slackening of the central pur- 
 pose which had held the network together; even had 
 Marks survived the first crash of the war the problem 
 would still have been much the same. Our work was 
 threefold; we gathered in the tangled reins, sought an 
 appraisal of the damage and prepared to abandon the 
 structure to Greenwood and Lyons. 
 
 I can't blame Marks for this confusion. I can imagine 
 what depths of hell he must have gone through as the final 
 day drew nearer and nearer; by some freak of chance the 
 greater part of his obligations had fallen due on the first 
 day of August. And then the news of war, the closing 
 of the market, the vanishing of the final hope He 
 suffered in full. There would have been sufficient excuse 
 for neglect in the period of depression which preceded 
 the war; with the added burden of slowly approaching 
 disaster he must have lived for nearly a year in a state of 
 inconceivable mental torment. At another time I might 
 have felt bitterly toward him for this blind misuse of what 
 we held in common, this wanton destruction of our struc- 
 ture; as it was, I felt only sympathetic regret. He, too, 
 had bungled. 
 
 Greenwood and Lyons failed to help us. At first they 
 were very volvble with explanations, with surmises, with
 
 FLOOD TIDE 343 
 
 vaguely condolent reflections on Marks' sanity. They 
 knew nothing; how should they? Stowell had suspected 
 that they were in some way responsible, and as a sus- 
 picion we let it rest. What promises they held forth to 
 Marks I do not know. There may have been no promises ; 
 perhaps, like myself, they merely were instrumental in 
 affording Marks his opportunity. 
 
 But their assistance, if they did assist, was merely a 
 minor cause of Marks' wild career of speculation. Dur- 
 ing the first week we found the real cause; even before 
 that we had found hints in scribbled memoranda, brief 
 notes in Marks' desk all segments of the circumference 
 and all bearing on a common center. We guessed at the 
 center, and finally Stowell found it. 
 
 "Look here," he said, as I returned from a trip to the 
 warehouse. He shoved aside a pile of papers at his 
 elbow and spread out a dilapidated blank book. As he 
 flipped over the covers I looked over his shoulder and 
 recognized it as the old notebook which I had kept at 
 Hatherly's, the book which had contained the germ of 
 The Stores. 
 
 "That?" I said. "I haven't seen it for years. Where 
 was it?" 
 
 "In the wall safe at the bottom, under a pile of stuff. 
 Marks hid it there, I think." 
 
 "Why should he hide it?" 
 
 "You'll see. Look it over start here." 
 
 The book, as he handed it to me, stood open at a great 
 numeral "II"; I frowned over that and endeavored to 
 recall setting it down. I ran back over the familiar 
 sheets ; the numeral "I" was prefaced to those in my own 
 handwriting. I turned to the second section again; it 
 was in Marks' neat, angular hand, each double page a 
 complete summary of some detail of the second web. 
 
 "Evidently kept as we went along," I commented, "al- 
 though I fail to recognize some of these details." 
 
 Stowell nodded. "Go on," he said.
 
 344 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Another great numeral ; the third section. I found this 
 entirely incomprehensible; across the head of each sheet 
 was the name of a city Philadelphia, Cleveland, 
 Chicago, Pittsburg almost twenty in all, and below each 
 name were orderly columns of figures filling the page. 
 
 "What's all this?" I asked irritably. "A crypto- 
 gram?" 
 
 "The figures, you mean? Filing sections." 
 
 "But we use the alphabetical system always have. 
 Has he changed that?" 
 
 "That puzzled me at first, until I recognized it as the 
 same system we use at the office. You remember telling 
 me that you had outgrown the old filing room and were 
 using it for dead material?" 
 
 "That was two years ago," I remembered. 
 
 "That's where this new index system comes in. Marks 
 threw out the dead stuff and used the space for himself." 
 
 "But why Cleveland and Albany and these other 
 places? What have they to do with us?" 
 
 "Nothing now." He turned over the pile of papers 
 which he had shoved to one side. "But they might have 
 meant something. I went down to the old filing room 
 while you were out and took a survey. This," and he 
 lifted the pile, "is about one tenth of the stuff on Cleve- 
 land alone. . . . Marks planned to duplicate The Stores 
 in each of those cities, you see. ... I know, it sounds 
 wild, doesn't it? But it was all planned and I almost 
 believe that he would have gone through with it." 
 
 We looked at each other. 
 
 "The thing is impossible," I said. "That would run 
 into millions, Dick." 
 
 "Impossible? I'm not sure. . . . But that explains 
 his speculation. I imagine that he intended to come to 
 you with plans fully developed, convince you oh, I know 
 that he could have and then ride down your final ob- 
 jection of expense."
 
 FLOOD TIDE 345 
 
 "Perhaps," I admitted, "but it's imagination running 
 wild, Dick." 
 
 "Perhaps. But go on." 
 
 I turned again to the book. Beyond the third section 
 was another. This fourth section is difficult to define; as 
 it stood in the book it was no more than a shadowy in- 
 completeness, an inchoate expression of an idea which 
 had never emerged from the shadows and taken on definite 
 form. It reached out beyond the third section ; how far it 
 reached is doubtful. There were fragmentary notes, dis- 
 connected words and phrases, hieroglyphic snatches of 
 diagrams, all mingled and jumbled together. Some pages 
 were black with penciled notes; others contained single 
 phrases standing forth alone. What it all meant is still 
 in doubt; I believe that the end which Marks con- 
 templated was the acquisition of the entire selling end of 
 business in the United States. And I'm not sure of that, 
 so disjointed and inconclusive was this fourth section. 
 Perhaps that is nothing more than my interpretation of it. 
 This book had been his confessional, his confidant; how 
 much of what he set down was merely a mental conception ; 
 impossible of completion, I have no means of knowing. 
 There were notes which leaped out ahead, unconnected 
 with anything else, vague flashes of ideas and possibilities 
 caught in passing. Only Marks could have explained it 
 all. It was wonderful, and at the same time infinitely 
 pathetic. Pasted to one page, and with a great question 
 mark against it, was a life insurance calculation. Some 
 inconclusive doubt must have been present in Marks' 
 mind; what he had mapped out was enough to occupy 
 three lives. 
 
 As I pieced together these indistinct odds and ends 
 and got some idea of his fantastic yet plausible plan, this 
 vast Orion's belt of stars spread across the country with 
 interlacing tips against the dim background of this 
 greater plan, I forgot all Marks' petty mannerisms, once 
 so annoying. I had disliked him during these last years
 
 346 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 for his planless grasping; now I saw the reason for it. 
 
 "I wish that I had understood him better," I said 
 soberly, as I laid the book aside. . . . 
 
 This was late in August. The clearing up of the 
 wreckage of The Stores took three months in all, but, 
 beyond certain minor incidents, my memories of this time 
 are essentially confusion. 
 
 I realized that I had lost more than The Stores. My 
 old life was ended. The Arrowrock, the Shadow, all the 
 old, careless existence of these past few years, now be- 
 came impossible. I was shut off from the past by an 
 impassable barrier; the future appeared ahead as a gray 
 wall beyond which nothing was visible. 
 
 That, I think, was the real cause of my breakdown. 
 I had always lived half in the present, half in the future. 
 Now my present was a hell of torturing memories, my 
 future an intangible non-existence. Even when work had 
 been most distasteful to me it had been a future possi- 
 bility, to turn to when I should tire of the present. Now 
 I was denied even that comfort. 
 
 One by one my holds on the present loosened. Kave- 
 naugh brought the Shadow down from Bath. She lay at 
 Evans' yards until Chris Blake made me an offer for her. 
 I took it. I needed the money, and it was evident that 
 my future income would leave no margin for her upkeep. 
 I made a furtive trip down to the Arrowrock and ar- 
 ranged to have the windows of the Shack boarded up. I 
 borrowed money from Stowell to pay the carpenter. . . . 
 
 During all this time the memory of Elizabeth was 
 always with me. However far I circled away, I always 
 came back to that. . . . 
 
 But most bitter of all was the realization that Marks' 
 failure was my fault. I knew that had I stayed at work 
 as I should have, had I taken even a passing interest in 
 his plans, the crash need never have occurred. . . . Once 
 or twice, engrossed in disentangling some rebellious snarl,
 
 FLOOD TIDE 347 
 
 I forgot that he was beyond human call, turned to con- 
 sult him and remembered. 
 
 As I have said, only a few of the events of those last 
 three months remain in my memory. Stowell says that 
 at times I talked and muttered to myself, conducting 
 fragmentary arguments with invisible opponents. Per- 
 haps I did; I have no remembrance of it. I know that 
 during the last month I was unable to sleep. A little 
 purple devil rode mahout on each eyeball, prodding in- 
 cessantly. I do remember long walks during sleepless 
 nights, walking briskly and jerkily about the city, seeking 
 forget fulness. Once I must have wandered as far up town 
 as the warehouse ; I seem to remember surveying it for a 
 long time from across the street, a silent gray block, 
 unlit save for the creeping glow worm of the watchman 
 on his rounds, a flickering light beyond the shifting gray 
 phantasy of mingled snow and sleet. This must have 
 been during the last days of the settlement period, the 
 days when people turned to look at me on the streets. 
 
 I remember also that the future preyed on me with 
 positive terror as it drew nearer. What would come 
 after the untangling of the present problem? This 
 after-life loomed ahead, inescapable, a blank gray wall, 
 approaching daily, inexorably. 
 
 Through it all I had the feeling of a man preparing 
 for inevitable death, oppressed by the knowledge that the 
 world would go on much the same after his passage, face 
 to face with the unsolvable problem of the beyond and 
 horribly afraid. 
 
 IV 
 
 Stowell irritated me at times. He watched me. He 
 was sympathetically bright and cheerful. He tried to 
 help me by suggesting futures. And the net result of 
 his efforts was to aggravate my mental confusion. He 
 talked interminably of his own work, trying to interest
 
 348 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 me; once, at least, he asked me point blank to come in 
 with him. His work was good, I knew ; it offered a future. 
 But I had settled that definitely ; unable to order my own 
 life, I was unfit to meddle with the lives of others. 
 
 "But what are you going to do?" he asked me more 
 than once. And then: "Oh, the devil! That's no 
 answer." 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 I must have puzzled him. I overheard the tail end 
 of a discussion between him and Fisher, a discussion 
 which evidently referred to me. 
 
 "There ought to be some way of getting him awake," 
 Stowell concluded. 
 
 "I've heard," said Fisher judicially, "that in such 
 cases a sudden shock of some sort does the trick. And 
 since you say that he's worried chiefly over something 
 outside The Stores " 
 
 I imagined him as frowning helpfully. 
 
 "Um," came Stowell's voice. And after a pause: 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 They were ostentatiously engaged in other matters 
 when I entered. 
 
 After that Stowell ceased to trouble me with inquiries 
 and suggestions. He continued to watch me, continued 
 to treat me as a sick child, to be humored and spoken to 
 softly, but the irritation of his interference was past. 
 
 I depended on him more and more. Once he was 
 absent for three days without explanation; lacking his 
 controlling hand I fought with Greenwood, fought with 
 Lyons, made an irritable beast of myself about the offices 
 and was nearly insane when he returned. 
 
 He came back to find me glaring at Greenwood across 
 the broad table in the inner office. Greenwood returned 
 my glare with interest and we were both speechless with 
 contempt. His senseless quibbling over petty details had 
 brought me to the end of my patience. Stowell's entrance 
 snapped the tension.
 
 FLOOD TIDE 349 
 
 "You're back, eh?" snapped Greenwood. "Glad of it; 
 we can talk sense now." He slammed off, with a back- 
 ward glance of contempt in my direction. 
 
 "How goes it?" asked Dick cheerfully. 
 
 "As you see. Greenwood has been egging me on to 
 commit murder. Where have you been?" 
 
 "Away. Just away. I'll tell you about it sometime. 
 . . . What were you two wild men scrapping about?" 
 
 He would give no further explanation. . . . 
 
 The last day came. My last connection with The 
 Stores was severed, the last line cast off. Greenwood 
 made the last possible concession, grudgingly, to be sure, 
 but still he made it. No doubt he considered me a des- 
 perate man. 
 
 "Well," he said despairingly, "as you say. It's more 
 than we should let you have, but He signed with 
 
 the air of a man doing an act of charity. Then he 
 smiled engulfingly and extended a huge moist hand. 
 Apparently he was ready to consider our past antag- 
 onism as a business ruse. "Fortunes of war," he grinned. 
 
 I overlooked his hand. "May I clear out my desk, or 
 do you want that too?" 
 
 He glared at me a moment, his fingers twitching. "We 
 want no reminders of you," he said; then stamped off 
 to exercise his new authority. 
 
 So Stowell sat and watched me as I rummaged through 
 the desk, two great waste baskets on either side of me. 
 Through the half open door came the old subdued mur- 
 mur and rustle ; a clerk passed with two heaping baskets 
 of papers on the way to the filing room ; his contented 
 whistle made a little eddy of sound in the silence. Every- 
 thing went on as usual. Stowell glanced nervously at 
 his watch. 
 
 "Don't stay ; the show is over." 
 
 "Are you in a hurry to get rid of me?" he asked, and 
 pulled out his watch again. 
 
 "No. But put up that cursed watch, will you?" I
 
 350 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 asked. "Time flies, I know, without your reminders." 
 
 I went on, finished and disposed of one drawer and 
 started on the next, sweeping great masses of papers 
 into the baskets and tossing aside the few things that I 
 wished to retain. 
 
 "What now?" asked Stowell. 
 
 "I've told ' you nothing." 
 
 "Oh nonsense !" he said, and made an impatient gesture. 
 
 I was too tired to flare up in reply. The gray wall 
 of the future was very near; my hold on the present had 
 dwindled to a bare ledge, slippery under my feet. 
 
 He watched me for a moment in silence; then went on 
 in a new line. He bullied me. 
 
 "You'll do what I say," he threatened. "Go back to 
 Whitehaven and patch yourself up. You've got the old 
 house left and a half interest in the store beside what 
 you've saved from this. Then come back and I'll set you 
 to work. You hear that?" 
 
 I gave no sign. 
 
 "Go back and make it up with Elizabeth," he went on, 
 without mercy. "Drop this King Cophetua attitude. 
 You were a fool and you know it. You've broken with 
 her twice once because of the future and once because 
 of the past. Try living in the present for a while. You've 
 never tried that ; you refuse to try it. You're up against 
 a dead wall no future. Run up another wall and shut 
 out the past." 
 
 He paused for effect. Why couldn't he let me alone 
 for this last hour? 
 
 "Try it, will you?" he pleaded. 
 
 I went on, blindly sorting over a white blur of papers, 
 choosing and discarding without seeing. 
 
 "If you could see her again " 
 
 "Don't. I never shall." 
 
 "You won't go back, then?" 
 
 I shook my head. The effort set the room swaying
 
 FLOOD TIDE 351 
 
 and reeling about me; I recovered my balance with diffi- 
 culty. The pain over my eyes had grown more intense 
 during these last days; the purple devils were full size 
 now and had grown expert with practice. Also they had 
 developed voices, and shouted comments to each other, 
 commenting on the progress of the ever nearing gray 
 wall. 
 
 A shadowy form veiled the half open door for a mo- 
 ment, peered in curiously, and was gone. Stowell rose 
 and stood over me. 
 
 "I hoped no matter," he said. "Good-by." 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 The door clicked softly behind him. Even Dick had 
 deserted me. This was the end. 
 
 I emptied the last drawer. In it were a few scattered 
 papers, and, at the bottom, the dog-eared old notebook 
 whose contents had been the cause of my failure and 
 success. I swept the papers to the floor; they were 
 worthless now. But the book ... I stared at it for a 
 moment, then spread it apart and tore it to pieces. The 
 door behind me creaked softly as I ripped up page after 
 page, tearing my dreams and Marks' dreams to tattered 
 fragments. The last page fluttered down. 
 
 I wheeled about in my chair, irrevocably shut off from 
 all the past. The door opened slowly; through it, as I 
 stared, came Elizabeth. Uncertain, flushed, with a faint 
 shadow of that old one-sided smile, she came toward me. 
 Behind her Stowell's anxious face appeared. 
 
 I rose unsteadily. Through the door, obscuring 
 Stowell's face, came what I had dreaded the gray wall 
 of mist which I had imagined as the future beyond the 
 end of The Stores. It came on, a blank reality, as I 
 watched in terror. It passed Elizabeth; she became an 
 indistinct figure, reaching appealing arms toward me 
 through the dim whiteness. It advanced swiftly, noise- 
 lessly, horribly, like the gray walls of evening fog which
 
 352 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 Dick and I had watched from the cliffs long ago. It 
 flowed around me and the world vanished. In the gray 
 dusk strange antediluvian beasts moaned and yammered 
 endlessly. 
 
 Biologists have a lordly way of dismissing great 
 stretches of time with a careless wave of the hand. 
 
 "Three million years, perhaps four, and we have " 
 
 perhaps a new kink in the tail of an arthropod. The 
 earth whirled some millions of times on its axis ; the moon 
 cooled, contracted, and ceased to fill so large a part of 
 the heavens; somewhere in one distant corner of the sky 
 two stars collided, struggled a while, spawned a brood of 
 planets and settled down to respectable married life. 
 Meanwhile the arthropod, squirming contentedly in the 
 steaming mud, perhaps developed an extra pair of ribs 
 or turned his eyes outward. One envies him his careless 
 expenditure of time. 
 
 So with this gray fog period. Time passed, and noth- 
 ing happened. Eons passed; eons marked one from the 
 other by the slow alternation of dim light and faint 
 shadow within the fog. There was no time in this gray 
 future, merely this imperceptibly slow tarnishing and 
 brightening of the silver gray dimness. Yet time passed, 
 somewhere beyond the gray boundaries, as a river flows 
 unseen below its covering of ice. This flow was percep- 
 tible but immeasurable ; I had no knowledge whether thes* 
 indistinct boundaries marked the passage of days or <v 
 centuries. 
 
 Still there was a minor division of this period. When 
 I entered the mist it undulated, swirled, bearing me help- 
 less in a weird saraband. There was a distant yammering 
 and crying in the dim twilight, a subdued ululant lamen- 
 tation which ultimately faded and became lost in silence. 
 
 With the passage of this inarticulate mouthing there
 
 FLOOD TIDE 353 
 
 was a cessation of all movement, a dead calm in which 
 I moved disembodied. The mist flattened, ceased swirl- 
 ing, became thick, viscid, thicker than any earthly fog. 
 It possessed a quality of resistance; movement required 
 an immense effort, an immense mental effort. After a 
 century or so I became convinced of the futility of effort. 
 In some curious way I was content. 
 
 I was content because I was not alone in the fog. 
 There seemed another near me; intangible, unseen, un- 
 heard, perceptible only through intuition. This presence 
 comforted me. It was my one grip on reality. I clung to 
 it; to lose that was to lose everything. 
 
 During the first part of the fog, before it ceased flow- 
 ing and undulating, I was obsessed by something which 
 needed explanation on my part; something which seemed 
 explicable and yet beyond explanation. At length I 
 seemed to make myself understood. My explanation was 
 vague, speechless, incoherent; an explanation of some- 
 thing which I myself understood none too clearly. I 
 seemed to reiterate, to grope vainly for modes of ex- 
 pression. Always I arrived at the same end, an end 
 which always satisfied this unseen presence beyond reach 
 in the fog. . . . Presently I would become restless and 
 take up the thread of explanation again. 
 
 Finally this too ceased. My explanation ended. At 
 the same time, I think, came the cessation of the restless 
 movement of the fog. I waited, confident that somewhere 
 beyond the present grayness was dawn. . . . 
 
 But this reconstruction is, at least, largely problem- 
 atical. I know that there was a fog. No doubt at the 
 time I moved in a limited area of clearness, seeing im- 
 mediate objects vividly, perhaps seeing the past and 
 future clearly. All that has been sponged away from my 
 memory, wiped clean save for these faint and shadowy 
 lines. 
 
 And at last, as abruptly as it had appeared, the fog 
 
 vanished.
 
 354 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 I looked out through a window, a low, broad-ledged 
 window. Yellow hangings swayed slowly on either side. 
 In the air was an indefinable scent of spring, of awakened 
 earth. Through the upper panes, as the curtains swayed, 
 I saw a low-swung branch with broad leaves and opening 
 spires of white and red blossoms. Beyond were huddled 
 roofs, further still, a glimpse of brown rocks and blue 
 water. A white sail passed. 
 
 All this puzzled me beyond measure, for my last mem- 
 ory was was there confusion seized me. I remembered 
 
 an intolerably aching head. But before that Some 
 
 one had carried me indoors, with long shining braids over 
 a tartan shawl or had there been a gray sky, occasional 
 drifting flakes of sooty snow, and a gray fog swirling 
 through an opened door? I decided in favor of the shawl 
 and shining braids. There had been a fog, I remembered, 
 and many bad dreams. 
 
 I waited. Presently, I felt, I would see a tall, black- 
 bearded figure pass beyond the hedge. He would click 
 the latch of the gate ; then, perceiving me, his brows would 
 relax; he would smile with a flash of teeth and wave 
 to me. 
 
 Then these confused impressions vanished in face of 
 a momentous discovery. I discovered my legs, stretched 
 before me on a low stool, wonderfully long and decorated 
 at the further end with stained canvas shoes. Assuredly 
 these were not mine. I contemplated them dubiously for 
 a long time, then ventured on a trial. I moved my toes, 
 and one foot nodded at me in confirmation. That was a 
 trick, I knew. Some one had pulled a string. I tried 
 again; the same result. I became crafty and moved my 
 toes twice in succession. The absurdly distant foot 
 nodded twice. Conviction overcame me. 
 
 "That," I said firmly, "is my foot." 
 
 Copernicus, first enunciating his belief that the earth
 
 FLOOD TIDE 355 
 
 revolved about the sun, might have spoken in the same 
 tone. 
 
 "But good Lord, how I have grown !" I added. 
 
 For a time I wandered in this border land, half con- 
 vinced that I was no longer a little boy, half dubious 
 as to the reality of the bad dreams. Then, very much 
 puzzled and suddenly wearied of it all, I fell asleep. 
 
 I awoke again, later in the same day ; the shadows had 
 wheeled about in the garden and the distant sea was 
 darker in tone. A stray shaft of golden sunlight pene- 
 trated the room, illuminating something which had 
 escaped my notice on that first awakening. I seemed to 
 face another window, a casement opening on a distant, 
 misty seascape. A great gray sea lifted a gleaming 
 shoulder in the foreground ; a wheeling gull rose from the 
 valley of shadow beyond; further, shining waves receded 
 in misty recessional ; a thicker duskiness half hid and half 
 revealed sails shimmering faintly in the silver twilight. 
 And, still beyond, a distant, elusive glimpse of a goal 
 which shifted and throbbed and changed in the changing 
 light even as I watched. 
 
 For a bare moment I faced this window on a faerie sea, 
 then saw the litter of brushes and tubes and the easel 
 behind. The seascape shifted plane abruptly and became 
 a painting. A good painting, I decided, superlatively 
 good; in handling of warm color and translucent mist 
 faintly reminiscent of some of my own. But much better. 
 And not mine ; I saw it for the first time. 
 
 I turned to the other window and awoke to full recog- 
 nition of the present. The tree beyond the window was 
 the horse chestnut tree of my boyhood, the tree from 
 which Jason had carved the figurehead of the Argo, a 
 tree articulate with the low zooning of bees humming from 
 blossom-spire to blossom-spire. This was home, I recog- 
 nized. How I had reached here failed to puzzle me ; the 
 bewildered groping of my first awakening had been sup- 
 planted by a deep content.
 
 356 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 But one sensation of that first awakening remained. 
 I waited, not for my father, but for some one else. A 
 restless expectancy stirred me. The shadows unfolded 
 imperceptibly as I watched ; a ragged procession of white 
 sails drew slowly in past the distant brown rocks ; the 
 sea beyond grew ever darker, the soft line of the horizon 
 ever fainter. ' The bees departed and the talking tree was 
 hushed. . . . 
 
 And at last beyond the hedge appeared the one I had 
 awaited Elizabeth. Memory became complete. She 
 passed hurriedly along, her face turned toward the house. 
 The gate clicked; she approached swiftly along the nar- 
 row path. I watched from behind my ambush of yellow 
 curtains. She saw me and her pace slackened; she 
 loitered, as though suddenly relieved from tension. The 
 lilac clumps along the path engrossed her attention; she 
 broke off a cluster here and there, then came on. Outside 
 the window she paused, leaning on the sill, her face level 
 with mine. 
 
 "You've finished it ?" she asked, her eyes on the canvas 
 behind me. 
 
 I had expected I don't know what; perhaps that she 
 would be surprised to see me. But now I turned in be- 
 wilderment to the canvas. 
 
 "Is it mine?" I asked after a moment. 
 
 "Of course." A faint shadow brushed her face. 
 "Whose should it be?" 
 
 "I don't know. But mine I don't remember it. 
 
 I just woke up, Bess." 
 
 "Woke up!" The shadow vanished, supplanted by a 
 swift radiance. She looked at me, one brow lifted in 
 perplexity, her eyes troubled. "Then you don't re- 
 member it?" 
 
 "Not a single brush mark." 
 
 "I believe you are awake." She smiled, yet with a hint 
 of tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Have I been asleep long?" I hesitated. "I seem to
 
 FLOOD TIDE 357 
 
 remember I don't know what. I cleaned up my desk- 
 Dick was there then you came and now I'm here." 
 
 "You've been not asleep, but away, for half a year," 
 she explained. "Not bodily, but mentally. And not that, 
 exactly. You didn't remember things. You didn't recall 
 anything about The Stores do you now?" 
 
 "Yes. It was a grand smash up, wasn't it? Nobody's 
 fault but mine. And I'm not sorry, except for Marks." 
 
 "One part of your mind was taken away like like an 
 ill-used toy," she went on after a moment. "The rest was 
 clear enough. You remembered everything connected 
 with me, but nothing else. Not even Dick." 
 
 "Then I was partly sane? I talked?" 
 
 "A great deal," she admitted with a shade of re- 
 luctance. 
 
 Faint memories dawned on me. "I explained some- 
 thing?" 
 
 She nodded slowly. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 But she was silent, her face turned from me, a clear 
 silhouette against the gathering dusk. My question went 
 unanswered; is unanswered to this day. What I ex- 
 plained, or how, during that period of gray blankness, is 
 still a mystery to me. There was much to explain ; much 
 more to atone for. . . . But, for all my lack of memory, 
 I must have been singularly clear minded during the time 
 of fog. Without speech, J was forgiven. I touched her 
 hand timidly, in awkward caress ; she turned and smiled 
 mistily at me. 
 
 "And you don't remember even your painting? You've 
 done a deal of that lately. Some of it you've sold. This 
 
 last one " She looked past me at the misty canvas 
 
 with the dim silvery sea, the half seen sails, and the elusive 
 goal in the distance. "Your others have been bits about 
 the harbor and along the coast, nothing like this. It's 
 bigger, and entirely different. But you've never seen 
 anything like it."
 
 358 FLOOD TIDE 
 
 "No and yes. Perhaps I haven't seen it, but I've 
 lived it." Even as Sorolla's canvas had once revealed a 
 future to me, so this shimmering gray expanse showed 
 me a past, my own past, filled with blind groping through 
 illusion toward a half-sensed goal. That goal I now 
 recognized w,ithin arm's length. . . . Then, as always, 
 my thoughts reversed a step and turned forward. 
 
 "I could make a living at that, I suppose." 
 
 She nodded happily. "But you won't have to, unless 
 you prefer. Dick has been up once or twice. He still 
 wants you." 
 
 "I'd like to try it. His work is out of my line, but 
 still it's a future. "Swift and absolute dejection over- 
 came me. "That's been my trouble. Always the future. 
 . . . And still the future. Always to-morrow." 
 
 She laughed courageously. 
 
 "That's the best part of life, after all." Her hand, 
 still in mine, tightened in a firm pressure; beyond the 
 house roofs a sail, pale rose in the sunset glow, passed 
 slowly in, home from the dark sea. 
 
 tEINTED IN THE U. S. A.
 
 T 
 
 HE following pages contain advertisements of a 
 few of the Macmillan novels.
 
 The Tree of Heaven 
 
 By MAY SINCLAIR 
 
 $j.6o 
 
 A masterly analysis of the younger generation in Eng- 
 land the generation which only four years ago was 
 condemned as neurotic and decadent, and which has 
 vindicated itself by such devotion and simplicity of 
 heart in the ordeal of war. 
 
 One appreciative reader writes: 
 
 "What delicate keen razor-like blades of humor; what clear lucid 
 depths of pathos and understanding what cleaving dissective strokes, 
 cutting into the ludicrous hodge-podge of human psychology and 
 laying bare the strata veined with blood and stupidity! it is im- 
 mortally done." 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 Michael Brother of Jerry 
 
 BY JACK LONDON 
 
 With frontispiece in colors. Decorated cloth, I2tno, 
 
 " The kind of story Jack London told best," " Pos- 
 sesses in a nigh degree the charm of Mr. London's 
 best dog stories," " Mr. London puts himself to the 
 test and emerges triumphant " these quotations 
 from The New York Globe, The New York Tribune 
 and The Boston Transcript express the general opin- 
 ion of "Jerry of the Islands." Many people, even 
 among his admirers, had grave misgivings as to 
 whether Mr. London could write another dog story 
 that would compare favorably with " The Call of the 
 Wild." But " Jerry of the Islands " demonstrated 
 that he could, and he has done it again in " Michael 
 Brother of Jerry." Michael comes into the chron- 
 icle of Jerry's life. There are indications in the 
 first novel that Michael's career is no less appealing 
 and unusual than Jerry's own, a fact well borne out 
 by this fascinating account of it. It is just as good 
 a book as "Jerry of the Islands" and it may be 
 that it is even a bit more absorbing. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New Tor*
 
 A Son of the Middle Border 
 
 By HAMLIN GARLAND 
 
 With illustrations by Alice Barber Stephens. $1.60; Autograph Edition, 
 $2.50. 
 
 "Garland has written the epic of the pioneer a masterpiece of American 
 narrative." The Chicago Tribune. 
 
 William Dean Howells writes: 
 
 "As you read the story you realize it the memorial of a generation, as 
 you review it you perceive it an epic of such mood and make as has 
 not been imagined before." 
 
 ". . . It is a psychological synthesis of personal and general conditions 
 in a new country such as has not got into literature before. That, in 
 itself, if it were nothing else, is a precious contribution to human knowl- 
 edge, and hereafter no one who wishes to know what the conditions of 
 the Middle West were fifty years ago, or the conditions of well-nigh all 
 America throughout its beginnings have been, can ignore this very un- 
 exampled book." 
 
 Col. Theodore Roosevelt writes: 
 
 "We are fortunate in having in this book a permanent record attractive- 
 ly and clear-sightedly written, of the life of those individualistic, self- 
 reliant native farming folk, who played by far the greatest part in the 
 upbuilding of our western territory." 
 
 Edwin Markham writes: 
 
 " 'A Son of the Middle Border' echoes the strain and struggle of a mighty 
 
 human epoch of the herculean labors of men and women, pushing back 
 
 the forest and the frontiers to make way for civilization. 
 
 "This book, in its wide sweep and basic truth and sharp delineation, 
 
 reaches an epic significance, and will be a store-house for history and 
 
 fiction down years to come." 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 The Dwelling Place of Light 
 
 BY WINSTON CHURCHILL 
 
 Author of "The Inside of the Cup," "Richard Carvel," etc. 
 With frontispiece by Arthur I. Keller. 
 
 Cloth, i2mo., $1.60 
 
 "One of the most absorbing and fascinating romances, 
 and one of the most finished masterpieces of serious literary 
 art which have appeared in this year or in this century." 
 New York Tribune. 
 
 "It is a powerful story, wonderfully told, the gifted author 
 has succeeded in gripping the reader's attention and in 
 holding his interest to the very last. . . . Janet is a charac- 
 ter that will live, for there are thousands of young women 
 who will recognize in her some phase of their own experi- 
 ence and some of their own aspirations." Philadelphia 
 Ledger. 
 
 "He has never hitherto depicted a woman character with 
 quite so much insight, skill and surety as he portrays Janet 
 Bumpus." New York Times. 
 
 America, dynamic, changing, diverse, with new laws and 
 old desires, new industries and old social rights, new people 
 and old this is the environment in which Mr. Churchill 
 places the heroine of his new book. He has never written 
 a more entertaining story ; he has never written one that is 
 more significant in its interpretation of human relation- 
 ships to-day. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64r-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 H. G. WELLS' LATEST NOFEL 
 
 The Soul of a Bishop 
 
 By the Author of "Mr. Britling" 
 
 Cloth, $1.50; Leather, $2.50 
 
 "Its portrait of the Bishop is masterly, it has power and inter- 
 est. New York Times. 
 
 "The book is enormously suggestive." Philadelphia Public 
 Ledger. 
 
 "The reader follows with breathless interest the narrative of his 
 passionate quest for a real God and a real religion, and the poverty 
 and hardship in which this quest involve him and his family. 
 But the questions are so frankly what any one of us may be asking 
 if the war comes home to us as vitally as it has to England, that 
 the reader follows with absorbed interest the Bishop's inner strug- 
 gles and cannot but be stirred to clearer thinking. . . . The sin- 
 cerity and earnestness of this quest of a very human man for some- 
 thing that will satisfy the spirit within is what one feels and what 
 is convincing. . . . Will help clear the mental atmosphere for many. 
 For others it will stir to a work much needed at the present time 
 thinking, that there may be the sifting necessary when the new 
 shall appear. . . . The book cannot but be helpful to those battling 
 their way through forms and creeds and dogmas to pure truth. It 
 is written sincerely and earnestly by one who tells frankly what he 
 has found on the road." Philadelphia Telegraph. 
 
 "Era making. ... A tour de force, a power, that will make people 
 think, that will, perhaps, start a vast movement. In any event it is 
 a vital, a compelling contribution to the life of these times. It is 
 the 'Robert Elsmere' of its day. No one who would understand 
 the new world forces that have been unleashed and are so feebly 
 known about should pass it by. It is, in brief, a book that must be 
 read." Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 
 
 "Utmost dash and brilliancy As brilliant a piece of writing 
 
 as Mr. Wells has ever offered the public; it is entertaining from 
 beginning to end. ... It should arouse some serious thought even 
 in those who will be most shocked by the attacks on dogmatic re- 
 ligion," New York Sun. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue Hew York
 
 Christine 
 
 BY ALICE CHOLMONDELEY 
 
 Cloth, I2mo., $1.25 
 
 "A book which is true in essentials so real that one is tempted to 
 doubt whether it is fiction at all doubly welcome and doubly impor- 
 tant. ... It would be difficult indeed to find a book in which the 
 state of mind of the German people is pictured so cleverly, with so 
 much understanding and convincing detail. . . . Intelligent, gener- 
 ous, sweet-natured, broadminded, quick to see and to appreciate all 
 that is beautiful either in nature or in art, rejoicing humbly over 
 her own great gift, endowed with a keen sense of humour, Chris- 
 tine's is a thoroughly wholesome and lovable character. But 
 charming as Christine's personality and her literary style both are, 
 the main value of the book lies in its admirably lucid analysis of 
 the German mind." New York Times. 
 
 "Absolutely different from preceding books of the war. Its very 
 freedom and girlishness of expression, its very simplicity and open- 
 heartedness, prove the truth of its pictures." New York World. 
 
 "A luminous story of a sensitive and generous nature, the spon- 
 taneous expression of one spirited, affectionate, ardently ambitious, 
 and blessed with a sense of humour." Boston Herald. 
 
 "The next time some sentimental old lady of either sex, who 
 'cant see why we have to send our boys abroad/ comes into your 
 vision, and you know they are too unintelligent (they usually are) 
 to understand a serious essay, try to trap them into reading 'Chris- 
 tine.' If you succeed we know it will do them good." Town and 
 Country. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000038091 5