re-thing man, once was a parson."

I looked again. Mosher had just taken off his hat. His high-domed head
was of monumental baldness, his eyes close-set and crafty, his nose
negligible. The rest of his face was mostly beard. It grew black as the
Pit to near the bulge of his stomach, and seemed to have drained his
scalp in its rank luxuriance. Across the deck came the rich, oily tones
of his voice.

"A bad-looking bunch," I said.

"Yes, there's heaps like them on board. There's a crowd of dance-hall
girls going up, and the usual following of parasites. Look at that
Halfbreed. There's a man for the country now, part Scotch, part Indian;
the quietest man on the boat; light, but tough as wire nails."

I saw a lean, bright-eyed brown man with flat features, smoking a
cigarette.

"Say! Just get next to those two Jews, Mike and Rebecca Winklestein.
They're going to open up a sporty restaurant."

The man was a small bandy-legged creature, with eyes that squinted, a
complexion like ham fat and waxed moustaches. But it was the woman who
seized my attention. Never did I see such a strapping Amazon, six foot
if an inch, and massive in proportion. She was handsome too, in a
swarthy way, though near at hand her face was sensuous and bold. Yet she
had a suave, flattering manner and a coarse wit that captured the crowd.
Dangerous, unscrupulous and cruel, I thought; a man-woman, a shrew, a
termagant!

But I was growing weary of the crowd and longed to go below. I was no
longer interested, yet the voice of the Prodigal droned in my ear.

"There's an old man and his granddaughter, relatives of the
Winklesteins, I believe. I think the old fellow's got a screw loose.
Handsome old boy, though; looks like a Hebrew prophet out of a job.
Comes from Poland. Speaks Yiddish or some such jargon; Only English he
knows is 'Klondike, Klondike.' The girl looks heartbroken, poor little
beggar."

"Poor little beggar!" I heard the words indeed, but my mind was far
away. To the devil with Polish Jews and their granddaughters. I wished
the Prodigal would leave me to my own thoughts, thoughts of my Highland
home and my dear ones. But no! he persisted:

"You're not listening to what I'm saying. Look, why don't you!"

So, to please him, I turned full round and looked. An old man,
patriarchal in aspect, crouched on the deck. Erect by his side, with her
hand on his shoulder, stood a slim figure in black, the figure of a
girl. Indifferently my eyes