just “Martin,” all his life. And “Mister!” It was certainly going some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing-kens, fever-hospitals and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he had been addressed in those various situations.
e had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger
This must be love, she thought, in the one rational moment that was vouchsafed her. If it was not love, it was too shameful
Let me not see this soul-house built of mud
Go toppling to the dust a vacant shrine!”
Now, how am I goin’ to get it?
It would never do for Her to come out and see him talking there with them. Quite naturally
He washed his teeth, and scrubbed his hands with a kitchen scrub-brush till he saw a nail-brush in a drug-store window and divined its use.
“I never got any away from you,” Martin answered uninterestedly. The breakfast had to be got through somehow
Come here, Alfred,” he called to the crying child, at the same time thrusting his hand into his trousers pocket, where he carried his money loose in the same large way that he lived life in general.
For, after all, he had never found his permanent abiding place. He had fitted in wherever he found himself, been a favorite always and everywhere by virtue of holding his own at work and at play and by his willingness and ability to fight for his rights and command respect. But he had never taken root.
