red him.
"Amerikanetz," they told him, "just out of prison!" They thronged
round him, bubbling over with the story, while he stood, trim and
armed, his hard, neat face arrogant under the sideways-tilted peak of
his cap, hearing them augustly. Then he smiled.

"Tak!" he said briefly. "So!" He turned on Waters, coming round on
him with a movement like a slow swoop. Never was anything so galling
as the air he had of contemptuous and amused comprehension.

"You march!" he ordered. "Get off this street!" He pointed with his
white-painted baton to the nearest turning. "Don't say anything,
now," he warned. "March!"

Waters hesitated. The istvostchiks, still hopeful of sport, pressed
nearer. To disobey and resist meant being cut down and stamped to
death under their heavy boots. Across the policeman's pointing arm,
Waters saw the face of his enemy, expectant, avid, bestial with
hideous and cruel mirth. He regarded it for a moment thoughtfully.
Then, with a shrug, he turned and moved in the direction he had been
ordered to go.

Again, behind him, there was that jeering outcry, as the policeman,
smiling indulgently and watching his departure, seemed to preside
over the chorus.

He came at length, going slowly, to the water side. It was dark by
then; the sheds of the wharves shut out the river and made a barrier
against the sweep of the wind. From over their roofs came the glare
of the high arc-lamps at the wharf-edge and the masts and the rigging
of ships lifted into view. The stridency of day was over in the
shabby street; its high houses, standing like cliffs, showed tier
upon tier of windows, dimly lighted or dark, while from under the
feet of the buildings, from cellar-saloons to traktirs below the
street-level, there spouted up the ruddiness of lamplight and the
jangle of voices. There was a smell in the sharp air of ships and
streets blended, the aromatic freshness of tar, the sourness of
crowds and uncleanliness.

Waters, halting upon the cobbles, sniffed with recognition and
unstiffened his mind as he gazed along the dreary street. He was
here, on his own ground; somewhere in the recesses of those gaunt
houses he would sleep that night, and next day he would wedge himself
back into his place in that uneasy waterside community and all would
be as before. He shivered under the lee of the sheds as he stood,
looking, scarcely thinking, merely realizing the scene in its evening
disguise.

Down the street towards him