Joe shook his head.

"No more road in mine, thank you kindly. Hoboin's all right, exceptin'
for one thing--the girls. I can't help it, but I'm a ladies' man. I
can't get along without 'em, and you've got to get along without 'em when
you're hoboin'. The times I've passed by houses where dances an' parties
was goin' on, an' heard the women laugh, an' saw their white dresses and
smiling faces through the windows--Gee! I tell you them moments was
plain hell. I like dancin' an' picnics, an' walking in the moonlight,
an' all the rest too well. Me for the laundry, and a good front, with
big iron dollars clinkin' in my jeans. I seen a girl already, just
yesterday, and, d'ye know, I'm feelin' already I'd just as soon marry her
as not. I've ben whistlin' all day at the thought of it. She's a beaut,
with the kindest eyes and softest voice you ever heard. Me for her, you
can stack on that. Say, why don't you get married with all this money to
burn? You could get the finest girl in the land."

Martin shook his head with a smile, but in his secret heart he was
wondering why any man wanted to marry. It seemed an amazing and
incomprehensible thing.

From the deck of the Mariposa, at the sailing hour, he saw Lizzie
Connolly hiding in the skirts of the crowd on the wharf. Take her with
you, came the thought. It is easy to be kind. She will be supremely
happy. It was almost a temptation one moment, and the succeeding moment
it became a terror. He was in a panic at the thought of it. His tired
soul cried out in protest. He turned away from the rail with a groan,
muttering, "Man, you are too sick, you are too sick."

He fled to his stateroom, where he lurked until the steamer was clear of
the dock. In the dining saloon, at luncheon, he found himself in the
place of honor, at the captain's right; and he was not long in
discovering that he was the great man on board. But no more
unsatisfactory great man ever sailed on a ship. He spent the afternoon
in a deck-chair, with closed eyes, dozing brokenly most of the time, and
in the evening went early to bed.

After the second day, recovered from seasickness, the full passenger list
was in evidence, and the more he saw of the passengers the more he
disliked them. Yet he knew that he did them injustice. They were good
and kindly people, he forced himself to acknowledge, and in the moment of
acknowledgment he qualified--good and kindly like all the bourgeoisie,
with al