long lines of dockers there--they were waiting for their
pay. At every pay window one of 'em stood with an empty cigar box in his
hands--and into that box every man as he passed dropped a part of his
pay--for the man who had been hurt that week--for him or for his widow.

"And over across the way," he went on, "I saw something on the
waterfront that fitted right into the scenery. It was a poster on a high
fence, and it had a black border around it. On one side of it was a
picture of a tall gent in a swell frock suit. He was looking squarely at
the docks and pointing to the sign beside him, which said, '_Certainly_
I'm talking to you! Money saved is money earned. Read what I will
furnish you for seventy-five dollars--cash. Black cloth or any color you
like--plush or imitation oak--casket with a good white or cream
lining--pillow--burial suit or brown habit--draping and embalming
room--chairs--hearse--three coaches--complete care and attendance--also
handsome candelabra and candles if requested.'"

As Marsh read this grisly list from his notebook, it suddenly came into
my mind that in my explorations years ago I had seen this poster at many
points, all along the waterfront. It had made no impression on me then,
for it had not fitted into my harbor. But Marsh had caught its meaning
at once and had promptly jotted it down for use. For it fitted his
harbor exactly.

Vaguely, in this and a dozen ways, I could feel him taking my harbor to
pieces, transforming each piece into something grim and so building a
harbor all his own. Disturbedly and angrily I struggled to find the
flaws in his building, eagerly I caught at distortions here and there,
twisted facts and wrong conclusions. But in all the terrible stuff which
he had so hastily gathered here, there was so much that I could not
deny. And he gave no chance for argument. Quickly jumping from point to
point he pictured a harbor of slaves overburdened, driven into fierce
revolt. It was hard to keep my footing.

For his talk was not only of this harbor. It ranged out over an ocean
world which was all in a state of ferment and change. Men of every race
and creed, from English, Germans, Russians to Coolies, Japs and Lascars,
had crowded into the stokeholes, mixing bowls for all the world. And the
mixing process had begun. At Copenhagen, two years before, in a great
marine convention that followed the socialist congress there, Marsh had
seen the delegates from seventeen differ