lic" Reaction, and the like, to be _revolutions_ of the vast
human engine. Consider then the loss of power. Consider the impulse,
the enormous impulse, applied to the piston, and then look at
the result. What losses in leakages, in cooled enthusiasms, in
friction-heat, in (pardon the ludicrous analogy) waste gases! Think,
too, of the loss involved in unbalanced minds, as in unbalanced
engines, one mass of bigoted inertia retarding another mass! Oh, my
friend, my friend, you talk of "losses" as though you playwrights had
a monopoly of it. Ask men of all trades, of all faiths, and they will
give you, in their answers, increased knowledge of human life.

Such, at least, is my method--digging into the hearts of men. Take,
for instance, my friend the Second Officer. A tall, lean young man,
with an iron jaw under his brown beard. I began to talk to him one
evening because he said he never had letters from home. He had a
sister, he told me, but there was no joy in the telling. "We don't
hit it off," he observed grimly, and I smiled. He has no sweetheart,
loves nothing but dogs. How he loves dogs! He has two at his heels all
day long. He loves them almost as much as dogs love the Chief Officer,
which is to distraction. He will take the solemn English terrier up on
his knee and give me a lecture thereon. This same pup, I learn, is
"low"--look at his nose! He is in bad health--just feel his back
teeth! Saucy? Yes, certainly, but not a thoroughbred hair on him. He
has worms, too, I understand, somewhere inside, and on several
occasions during the voyage his bowels needed attention. I, in my
utter ignorance of dog-lore, begin to marvel that the animal holds
together at all under the stress of these deficiencies. Perhaps the
dirt which he collects by rolling about on deck affords a protective
covering. Once a week, however, his lord and master divests him of
even this shadowy defence, and he emerges from a bucket, clean, soapy,
and coughing violently. In all probability he rejoices in consumption
as well.

The Second Officer, I say, teaches me philosophy. He has had a hard
life, I think. By sheer industry he has risen from common sailor to
his present berth. I say "sheer" because it seems to me that when a
man has no friends or relations who care to write to him, the way of
life must be very steep indeed. I was surprised, though, to learn
of his loneliness. Had he, then, no kindly light to lead him on?
Unconsciously he answered me