sudden revulsion against the grinding routine of his own life. It
came over him like a new discovery, that he was tired of South
America, tired of his ship, tired of everything. He contrasted his
own voyages in and out, from the same place to the same place, up
and down, up and down, as regular as the swing of a pendulum with
that gay wanderer of the raking masts who was free to roam the
world. It came over him with an insistence that he, too, would
like to roam the world, and see strange places and old marble
palaces with steps descending into the blue sea water, and islands
with precipices and beaches and palm trees.

Almost awed at his own presumption he sat down and wrote to Miss
Fenacre.

It was a short note, formally addressed, begging her for a
position in the engine-room staff. He knew, he said, that the
quota was probably made up, and that he could not hope for an
important place. But if she would take him as a first-class
artificer he would be more than grateful, and ventured on the
little pleasantry that even if he had to be squeezed in as a
supernumerary he was confident he could save her his pay and keep
a good many times over.

He got an answer a couple of days later, addressed from a
fashionable New York hotel and granting him an interview. She
called him "dear Frank," and signed herself "ever yours," and said
that of course she would give him anything he wanted, only that
she would prefer to talk it over first.

He put on his best clothes and went to see her, being shown into a