and read:

"Herbert Strange."

He repeated it at first in dull surprise, and then with disapproval. It
was not the kind of name he would have chosen. It was odd, noticeable--a
name people would remember He would have preferred something commonplace
such as might be found for a column or two in any city directory. She had
probably got it from a novel--or made it up. Girls did such things. It was
a pity, but there was no help for it now. As Herbert Strange he must go on
board the steamer, and so he should be called until--

But he was too tired to fix a date for the resumption of his own name or
the taking of another. Flinging himself on his couch of moss and trailing
ground-spruce, with the ferns closing over him, and the pines over them,
he was soon asleep.

Part II

Strange

VII

Dressed in overalls that had once been white, he was superintending the
stacking of wool in a long, brick-walled, iron-roofed shed in Buenos Aires
when the thought came to him how easy it had all been. He paused for a
minute in his work of inspection--standing by an open window, where a
whiff of fresh air from off the mud-brown Rio de la Plata relieved the
heavy, greasy smell of the piles of unwashed wool--just to review again
the past eighteen months. Below him stretched the noisy docks, with their
row of electric cranes, as regular as a line of street lamps, loading or
unloading a mile of steamers lying broadside on, and flying all flags but
the Stars and Stripes. Wines, silk, machinery, textiles were coming out;
wheat, cattle, hides, and beef were pouring in. In the confusion of
tongues that reached him he could, on occasions, catch the tones of
Spaniard, Frenchman, Swede, and Italian, together with all the varieties
of English speech from Highland Scotch to Cockney; but none of the
intonations of his native land. The comparative rarity of anything
American in his city of refuge, while it added to his sense of exile,
heightened his feeling of security. It was still another of the happy
circumstances that had helped him.

The strain under which he had lived during this year and a half had
undoubtedly been great; but he could see now that it had been inward
strain--the mental strain of unceasing apprehension, the spiritual strain
of the new creature in casting off the old husk, and adapting itself not
merely to new surroundings, but to a new life. This had been severe. He
was not a rover, and still less an adventu