He awoke next morning from rosy scenes of dream to a steamy
atmosphere that smelled of soapsuds and dirty clothes, and that was
vibrant with the jar and jangle of tormented life. As he came out
of his room he heard the slosh of water, a sharp exclamation, and a
resounding smack as his sister visited her irritation upon one of
her numerous progeny. The squall of the child went through him
like a knife. He was aware that the whole thing, the very air he
breathed, was repulsive and mean. How different, he thought, from
the atmosphere of beauty and repose of the house wherein Ruth
dwelt. There it was all spiritual. Here it was all material, and
meanly material.

"Come here, Alfred," he called to the crying child, at the same
time thrusting his hand into his trousers pocket, where he carried
his money loose in the same large way that he lived life in
general. He put a quarter in the youngster's hand and held him in
his arms a moment, soothing his sobs. "Now run along and get some
candy, and don't forget to give some to your brothers and sisters.
Be sure and get the kind that lasts longest."

His sister lifted a flushed face from the wash-tub and looked at
him.

"A nickel'd ha' ben enough," she said. "It's just like you, no
idea of the value of money. The child'll eat himself sick."

"That's all right, sis," he answered jovially. "My money'll take
care of itself. If you weren't so busy, I'd kiss you good
morning."

He wanted to be affectionate to this sister, who was good, and who,
in her way, he knew, loved him. But, somehow, she grew less
herself as the years went by, and more and more baffling. It was
the hard work, the many children, and the nagging of her husband,
he decided, that had changed her. It came to him, in a flash of
fancy, that her nature seemed taking on the attributes of stale
vegetables, smelly soapsuds, and of the greasy dimes, nickels, and
quarters she took in over the counter of the store.

"Go along an' get your breakfast," she said roughly, though
secretly pleased. Of all her wandering brood of brothers he had
always been her favorite. "I declare I WILL kiss you," she said,
with a sudden stir at her heart.

With thumb and forefinger she swept the dripping suds first from
one arm and then from the other. He put his arms round her massive
waist and kissed her wet steamy lips. The tears welled into her
eyes - not so much from strength of feeling as from the weakness of
chronic overwork. She shoved him away from her, but not before he
caught a glimpse of her moist eyes.

"You'll find breakfast in the oven," she said hurriedly. "Jim
ought to be up now. I had to get up early for the washing. Now
get along with you and get out of the house early. It won't be
nice to-day, what of Tom quittin' an' nobody but Bernard to drive
the wagon."

Martin went into the kitchen with a sinking heart, the image of her
red face and slatternly form eating its way like acid into his
brain. She might love him if she only had some time, he concluded.
But she was worked to death. Bernard Higginbotham was a brute to
work her so hard. But he could not help but feel, on the other
hand, that there had not been anything beautiful in that kiss. It
was true, it was an unusual kiss. For years she had kissed him
only when he returned from voyages or departed on voyages. But this
kiss had tasted soapsuds, and the lips, he had noticed, were
flabby. There had been no quick, vigorous lip-pressure such as
should accompany any kiss. Hers was the kiss of a tired woman who
had been tired so long that she had forgotten how to kiss. He
remembered her as a girl, before her marriage, when she would dance
with the best, all night, after a hard day's work at the laundry,
and think nothing of leaving the dance to go to another day's hard
work. And then he thought of Ruth and the cool sweetness that must
reside in her lips as it resided in all about her. Her kiss would
be like her hand-shake or the way she looked at one, firm and
frank. In imagination he dared to think of her lips on his, and so
vividly did he imagine that he went dizzy at the thought and seemed
to rift through clouds of rose-petals, filling his brain with their
perfume.

In the kitchen he found Jim, the other boarder, eating mush very
languidly, with a sick, far-away look in his eyes. Jim was a
plumber's apprentice whose weak chin and hedonistic temperament,
coupled with a certain nervous stupidity, promised to take him
nowhere in the race for bread and butter.

"Why don't you eat?" he demanded, as Martin dipped dolefully into
the cold, half-cooked oatmeal mush. "Was you drunk again last
night?"

Martin shook his head. He was oppressed by the utter squalidness
of it all. Ruth Morse seemed farther removed than ever.

"I was," Jim went on with a boastful, nervous giggle. "I was
loaded right to the neck. Oh, she was a daisy. Billy brought me
home."

Martin nodded that he heard, - it was a habit of nature with him to
pay heed to whoever talked to him, - and poured a cup of lukewarm
coffee.

"Goin' to the Lotus Club dance to-night?" Jim demanded. "They're
goin' to have beer, an' if that Temescal bunch comes, there'll be a
rough-house. I don't care, though. I'm takin' my lady friend just
the same. Cripes, but I've got a taste in my mouth!"

He made a wry face and attempted to wash the taste away with
coffee.

"D'ye know Julia?"

Martin shook his head.

"She's my lady friend," Jim explained, "and she's a peach. I'd
introduce you to her, only you'd win her. I don't see what the
girls see in you, honest I don't; but the way you win them away
from the fellers is sickenin'."

"I never got any away from you," Martin answered uninterestedly.
The breakfast had to be got through somehow.

"Yes, you did, too," the other asserted warmly. "There was
Maggie."

"Never had anything to do with her. Never danced with her except
that one night."

"Yes, an' that's just what did it," Jim cried out. "You just
danced with her an' looked at her, an' it was all off. Of course
you didn't mean nothin' by it, but it settled me for keeps.
Wouldn't look at me again. Always askin' about you. She'd have
made fast dates enough with you if you'd wanted to."

"But I didn't want to."

"Wasn't necessary. I was left at the pole." Jim looked at him
admiringly. "How d'ye do it, anyway, Mart?"

"By not carin' about 'em," was the answer.

"You mean makin' b'lieve you don't care about them?" Jim queried
eagerly.

Martin considered for a moment, then answered, "Perhaps that will
do, but with me I guess it's different. I never have cared - much.
If you can put it on, it's all right, most likely."

"You should 'a' ben up at Riley's barn last night," Jim announced
inconsequently. "A lot of the fellers put on the gloves. There
was a peach from West Oakland. They called 'm 'The Rat.' Slick as
silk. No one could touch 'm. We was all wishin' you was there.
Where was you anyway?"

"Down in Oakland," Martin replied.

"To the show?"

Martin shoved his plate away and got up.

"Comin' to the dance to-night?" the other called after him.

"No, I think not," he answered.

He went downstairs and out into the street, breathing great breaths
of air. He had been suffocating in that atmosphere, while the
apprentice's chatter had driven him frantic. There had been times
when it was all he could do to refrain from reaching over and
mopping Jim's face in the mush-plate. The more he had chattered,
the more remote had Ruth seemed to him. How could he, herding with
such cattle, ever become worthy of her? He was appalled at the
problem confronting him, weighted down by the incubus of his
working-class station. Everything reached out to hold him down -
his sister, his sister's house and family, Jim the apprentice,
everybody he knew, every tie of life. Existence did not taste good
in his mouth. Up to then he had accepted existence, as he had
lived it with all about him, as a good thing. He had never
questioned it, except when he read books; but then, they were only
books, fairy stories of a fairer and impossible world. But now he
had seen that world, possible and real, with a flower of a woman
called Ruth in the midmost centre of it; and thenceforth he must
know bitter tastes, and longings sharp as pain, and hopelessness
that tantalized because it fed on hope.

He had debated between the Berkeley Free Library and the Oakland
Free Library, and decided upon the latter because Ruth lived in
Oakland. Who could tell? - a library was a most likely place for
her, and he might see her there. He did not know the way of
libraries, and he wandered through endless rows of fiction, till
the delicate-featured French-looking girl who seemed in charge,
told him that the reference department was upstairs. He did not
know enough to ask the man at the desk, and began his adventures in
the philosophy alcove. He had heard of book philosophy, but had
not imagined there had been so much written about it. The high,
bulging shelves of heavy tomes humbled him and at the same time
stimulated him. Here was work for the vigor of his brain. He
found books on trigonometry in the mathematics section, and ran the
pages, and stared at the meaningless formulas and figures. He
could read English, but he saw there an alien speech. Norman and
Arthur knew that speech. He had heard them talking it. And they
were her brothers. He left the alcove in despair. From every side
the books seemed to press upon him and crush him.

He had never dreamed that the fund of human knowledge bulked so
big. He was frightened. How could his brain ever master it all?
Later, he remembered that there were other men, many men, who had
mastered it; and he breathed a great oath, passionately, under his
breath, swearing that his brain could do what theirs had done.

And so he wandered on, alternating between depression and elation
as he stared at the shelves packed with wisdom. In one
miscellaneous section he came upon a "Norrie's Epitome." He turned
the pages reverently. In a way, it spoke a kindred speech. Both
he and it were of the sea. Then he found a "Bowditch" and books by
Lecky and Marshall. There it was; he would teach himself
navigation. He would quit drinking, work up, and become a captain.
Ruth seemed very near to him in that moment. As a captain, he
could marry her (if she would have him). And if she wouldn't, well
- he would live a good life among men, because of Her, and he would
quit drinking anyway. Then he remembered the underwriters and the
owners, the two masters a captain must serve, either of which could
and would break him and whose interests were diametrically opposed.
He cast his eyes about the room and closed the lids down on a
vision of ten thousand books. No; no more of the sea for him.
There was power in all that wealth of books, and if he would do
great things, he must do them on the land. Besides, captains were
not allowed to take their wives to sea with them.

Noon came, and afternoon. He forgot to eat, and sought on for the
books on etiquette; for, in addition to career, his mind was vexed
by a simple and very concrete problem: WHEN YOU MEET A YOUNG LADY
AND SHE ASKS YOU TO CALL, HOW SOON CAN YOU CALL? was the way he
worded it to himself. But when he found the right shelf, he sought
vainly for the answer. He was appalled at the vast edifice of
etiquette, and lost himself in the mazes of visiting-card conduct
between persons in polite society. He abandoned his search. He
had not found what he wanted, though he had found that it would
take all of a man's time to be polite, and that he would have to
live a preliminary life in which to learn how to be polite.

"Did you find what you wanted?" the man at the desk asked him as he
was leaving.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "You have a fine library here."

The man nodded. "We should be glad to see you here often. Are you
a sailor?"

"Yes, sir," he answered. "And I'll come again."

Now, how did he know that? he asked himself as he went down the
stairs.

And for the first block along the street he walked very stiff and
straight and awkwardly, until he forgot himself in his thoughts,
whereupon his rolling gait gracefully returned to him.