e escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant
undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in still
lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand. Of deep-sea fishings he
heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile-long net; of sudden
perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or the tall bows of
the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog; of the merry
home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened out;
the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash of the
hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the comforting
glow of red-curtained windows.

Lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the Adventurer had
risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with
his sea-grey eyes.

'And now,' he was softly saying, 'I take to the road again, holding on
southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last I reach the
little grey sea town I know so well, that clings along one steep side of
the harbour. There through dark doorways you look down flights of stone
steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a patch
of sparkling blue water. The little boats that lie tethered to the
rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those
I clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the
flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and
foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day,
up to their moorings or forth to the open sea. There, sooner or later,
the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined
hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor. I shall take my
time, I shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting
for me, warped out into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing
down harbour. I shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then
one morning I shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink
of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in.
We shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on the
harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and
the voyage will have begun! As she forges towards the headland she will
clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of
great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing South!

'And you, you will come too, young brother; for the days