Kieran, strolling to the taffrail, resumed his study of the tossing
ship's wake and the cavorting barge in tow. When he seemed to have
settled the matter to his satisfaction, he seated himself on the other
towing bitt.

"You can get an idea into your head and sometimes it'll swing you
around like that barge on the end of that hawser, won't it? Or perhaps
your mind don't run that way?"

"I don't see," retorted the passenger, "that that barge has to stick
there forever. What's to prevent her from making a leap and fetching up
suddenly, and if she did she'd part that hawser like a piece of twine."

"Yes, but she won't make the leap--not till something outside of herself
drives her to it. If a sea should rise, or a gale of wind, she might.
But it would take something like that. In the meantime she points this
way and that, slewing now to this side--see--and now to the other--but
never getting away from this ship which has her in tow. Our course must
be her course."

"Yes, I suppose that is so."

"Well, then, Cogan that I've been telling you about was nearly always in
tow of a force that seemed to be outside of himself. A storm, a high
sea, or a gale of wind in his case would be an upheaval of his soul
like. But in those days he hadn't come to that. Maybe he was still only
half awake. Martin Jackson, sitting out on the sidewalk of his Fourth of
July saloon, came nearer to making him think than all of the school
teachers he'd ever seen. Maybe, too, life was too smooth in those days.
However, he was always in tow of some fancy or other. And one day,