the parties," he explained, "that he hadn't got on as quick as he'd
hoped to." I still like to think he was sincere when he said this.
Anyhow, I was encouraged. I bound up my copies of typescript and shoved
them out into the world. They came back. They became familiar at the
local post-office. The mad artist, meeting me with a parcel, would
divine the contents and inquire, "Well, and how's _Aliens_?" He would
also inform me that there were several books called by that title. He
would regard me with a glassy-eyed grin as I hurried on. He had no more
faith in me than he had in himself. Sometimes he would pretend not to
see me, but go stalking down the avenue, his fists twisted in his
pockets, his head bent, his brows portentous with thought ... a
grotesque humbug!

But the time came when, as I have explained elsewhere, I had had enough
of artists and books. Of art I never grow weary, but she calls me over
the world. I suspect the sedentary art-worker. Most of all, I suspect
the sedentary writer. I divide authors into two classes--genuine
artists, and educated men who wish to earn enough to let them live like
country gentlemen. With the latter I have no concern. But the artist
knows when his time has come. In the same way I turned with
irresistible longing to the sea, whereon I had been wont to earn my
living. It is a good life and I love it. I love the men and their ships.
I find in them a never-ending panorama which illustrates my theme, the
problem of human folly! Suffice it, I sent my manuscripts to London,
looked out my sea dunnage, and the publishing offices of New York City
knew me no more.

About a year later I received the proofs of _Aliens_ while in Cristobal,
Canal Zone. Without exaggeration, I scarcely knew what to do with them.
The outward trappings of literature had fallen away from me with the
heavy northern clothing which I had discarded on coming south. I was
first assistant engineer on a mail-boat serving New Orleans, the West
Indies and the Canal Zone. I had become inured once more to an
enchanting existence which alternated between bunk and engine-room. I
regarded the neatly-bound proof-copy of _Aliens_ with misgiving. My
esteemed Chief, a Scotsman in whose family learning is an honorable
tradition, suggested an empty passenger cabin as a suitable study. I
forget exactly how the proof-reading was dove-tailed into the watch
below, but dove-tailed it was, and when the job was done, the book once
more sa