seven until I was ten. It had taken me at seven, a plump
sturdy little boy, and at ten it had left me wiry, thin, with quick,
nervous movements and often dark shadows under my eyes. And it left a
deep scar on my early life. For over all the adventures and over my
whole childhood loomed this last thing I had seen, hideous, disgusting.
For years after that, when I saw or even thought of the harbor, I felt
the taste of foul, greasy water in my mouth and in my soul.

So ended the first lesson.

CHAPTER III

The next morning as I started for school, suddenly in the hallway I
thought of what my mother had told me--always when I was frightened to
shut my eyes and speak to Jesus and he would be sure to make everything
right. I had not spoken to Jesus of late except to say "Holy Christ!"
like Sam. But now, so sickened by Sam and his docks, my head throbbing
from the sleepless night, on the impulse I kneeled quickly with my face
on a chair right there in the hall. But I found I was too ashamed to
begin.

"If he would only ask me," I thought. Why didn't he ask me, "What's the
matter, little son?" or say, "Now, you must tell me and then you'll feel
better"--as my mother always did. But Jesus did not help me out. I could
not even feel him near me. "I will never tell anyone," I thought. And I
felt myself horribly alone.

Help came from a quite different source.

"There he is! Look!"

I heard Sue's eager whisper. Jumping quickly to my feet, I saw in the
library doorway Sue's dark little figure and her mocking, dancing eyes
as she pointed me out to our father, her chum, whose face wore a smile
of amusement. In a moment I had rushed out of doors and was running
angrily to school, furious at myself for praying, furious at Sue for
spying and at my father for that smile. My terror was forgotten. No more
telling Jesus things! I retreated deep inside of myself and worked out
of my troubles as best I could.

From that day the harbor became for me a big grim place to be let
alone--like my father. A place immeasurably stronger than I--like my
father--and like him harsh and indifferent, not caring whether when I
fell into it I was pulled up to safety or drawn far down into grease and
slime. It made no difference. I was nothing to it one way or the other.
And I was nothing to my father.

Of course this was by no means true. As I look back now I know that
often he must have tried to be kind, that in the jar and worry of his
own