ion to
human life, for of the flesh and the fowl and the fish you destroy as
much as I or any other man. And human life is in no wise different,
though you feel it is and think that you reason why it is. Why should I
be parsimonious with this life which is cheap and without value? There
are more sailors than there are ships on the sea for them, more workers
than there are factories or machines for them. Why, you who live on the
land know that you house your poor people in the slums of cities and
loose famine and pestilence upon them, and that there still remain more
poor people, dying for want of a crust of bread and a bit of meat (which
is life destroyed), than you know what to do with. Have you ever seen
the London dockers fighting like wild beasts for a chance to work?"

He started for the companion stairs, but turned his head for a final
word. "Do you know the only value life has is what life puts upon
itself? And it is of course over-estimated since it is of necessity
prejudiced in its own favour. Take that man I had aloft. He held on as
if he were a precious thing, a treasure beyond diamonds or rubies. To
you? No. To me? Not at all. To himself? Yes. But I do not accept
his estimate. He sadly overrates himself. There is plenty more life
demanding to be born. Had he fallen and dripped his brains upon the deck
like honey from the comb, there would have been no loss to the world. He
was worth nothing to the world. The supply is too large. To himself
only was he of value, and to show how fictitious even this value was,
being dead he is unconscious that he has lost himself. He alone rated
himself beyond diamonds and rubies. Diamonds and rubies are gone, spread
out on the deck to be washed away by a bucket of sea-water, and he does
not even know that the diamonds and rubies are gone. He does not lose
anything, for with the loss of himself he loses the knowledge of loss.
Don't you see? And what have you to say?"

"That you are at least consistent," was all I could say, and I went on
washing the dishes.

CHAPTER VII

At last, after three days of variable winds, we have caught the
north-east trades. I came on deck, after a good night's rest in spite of
my poor knee, to find the _Ghost_ foaming along, wing-and-wing, and every
sail drawing except the jibs, with a fresh breeze astern. Oh, the wonder
of the great trade-wind! All day we sailed, and all night, and the next
day, and the nex