ised the cover, and crawled into his canvas
hammock which was swung from both sides of his boat. Before going to
sleep he looked under the canvas at the river, at the stars, at the dark
cabin-boat forty feet distant in the eddy.

At the same moment he saw a face against a window pane in the cabin.

"What does it mean?" he asked himself, but there was no answer. The
river, when asked, seldom answers. Just as he was about to go to sleep,
he started up, wide awake.

For the first time on the river, he had forgotten to post up his notes.
He felt that he had come that day, as never before, to the forks in the
road--when he must choose between the present and the future. He lighted
his lantern, sat up in his cot, and reached for his typewriter.

He wrote steadily, at full speed, for an hour. When he had those
wonderful and fleeting thoughts and observations nailed down and safe,
he again put out his lantern, and turned in once more.

Then he heard a light, gay laugh, clear and distinct-a river voice
beyond question--full of raillery, and yet beneath the mocking note was
something else which he could neither identify nor analyze, which he
hoped was not scorn or mere derision, which he wished might be
understanding and sympathy--till he thought of his making those notes.

Then he despised himself, which was really good for his soul. His
conscience, instead of rejoicing, rebuked him as a cad. He swore under
his breath.

CHAPTER XVIII

Augustus Carline was a long time recovering even his consciousness. A
thousand dreams, a thousand nightmares tormented his thoughts while the
mangling grip of unnumbered vises and ropes sank deep into his flesh;
ploughs and harrows dragged through his twisted muscles.

Yet he did rise at last out of his pit and, leaning against the cabin of
his boat, look about him to see what hell he had escaped into. The sun
was shining somewhere, blinding his eyes, which were already seared. A
river coiled by, every ripple a blistering white flame. He heard birds
and other music which sounded like an anvil chorus performing in the
narrow confines of a head as large as a cabin.

He remembered something. It was even worse than what he was undergoing,
but he could not quite call the horror to the surface of the weltering
sea of his feelings; he did not even know his name, nor his place, nor
any detail except the present pain--and he didn't want to know. He
fought against knowing, till the thing p