erlasting and miraculous amazement. Oh,
trust me, I know the old, hard scientific method of weighing and
calculating and classifying love. It is a profound foolishness, a cosmic
trick and quip, to the contemplative eye of the philosopher--yes, and of
the futurist. But when one forsakes such intellectual flesh-pots and
becomes mere human and male human, in short, a lover, then all he may do,
and which is what he cannot help doing, is to yield to the compulsions of
being and throw both his arms around love and hold it closer to him than
is his own heart close to him. This is the summit of his life, and of
man's life. Higher than this no man may rise. The philosophers toil and
struggle on mole-hill peaks far below. He who has not loved has not
tasted the ultimate sweet of living. I know. I love Margaret, a woman.
She is desirable.

CHAPTER L

In the past twenty-four hours many things have happened. To begin with,
we nearly lost the steward in the second dog-watch last evening. Through
the slits in the ventilator some man thrust a knife into the sacks of
flour and cut them wide open from top to bottom. In the dark the flour
poured to the deck unobserved.

Of course, the man behind could not see through the screen of empty
sacks, but he took a blind pot-shot at point-blank range when the steward
went by, slip-sloppily dragging the heels of his slippers. Fortunately
it was a miss, but so close a miss was it that his cheek and neck were
burned with powder grains.

At six bells in the first watch came another surprise. Tom Spink came to
me where I stood guard at the for'ard end of the poop. His voice shook
as he spoke.

"For the love of God, sir, they've come," he said.

"Who?" I asked sharply.

"Them," he chattered. "The ones that come aboard off the Horn, sir, the
three drownded sailors. They're there, aft, sir, the three of 'em,
standin' in a row by the wheel."

"How did they get there?"

"Bein' warlocks, they flew, sir. You didn't see 'm go by you, did you,
sir?"

"No," I admitted. "They never went by me."

Poor Tom Spink groaned.

"But there are lines aloft there on which they could cross over from
mizzen to jigger," I added. "Send Wada to me."

When the latter relieved me I went aft. And there in a row were our
three pale-haired storm-waifs with the topaz eyes. In the light of a
bull's-eye, held on them by Louis, their eyes never seemed more like the
eyes of great cats. And