"'O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light
That holds the hot sky tame,
And the steady forefoot snores through the planet-powdered floors
Where the scared whale flukes in flame.
Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out
trail,
We're sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always
new.'"


"Eh, Hump? How's it strike you?" he asked, after the due pause
which words and setting demanded.

I looked into his face. It was aglow with light, as the sea
itself, and the eyes were flashing in the starshine.

"It strikes me as remarkable, to say the least, that you should
show enthusiasm," I answered coldly.

"Why, man, it's living! it's life!" he cried.

"Which is a cheap thing and without value." I flung his words at
him.

He laughed, and it was the first time I had heard honest mirth in
his voice.