caught in a hurricane of powdered charcoal. Athwart them, Parisian
gowns floated past on stout Italian forms; hulking third-class
Australians, in shirtsleeves, slouched along toward their mail-boat,
hugging whiskey bottles, baskets of oranges, baskets of dates; British
soldiers, khaki-clad for India, raced galloping donkeys through the
crowded and dusty street. It was mail-day, and gayety flowed among the
tables, under the thin acacias, on a high tide of Amer Picon.

Through the inky files of the coaling-coolies burst an alien and
bewildered figure. He passed unnoticed, except by the filthy little Arab
bootblacks who swarmed about him, trotting, capering, yelping
cheerfully: "Mista Ferguson!--polish, finish!--can-can--see nice Frencha
girl--Mista McKenzie, Scotcha fella from Dublin--smotta picture--polish,
finish!"--undertoned by a squabbling chorus. But presently, studying his
face, they cried in a loud voice, "Nix! Alles!" and left him, as one not
desiring polish.

"German, that chap," drawled the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, lazily,
noticing the uncertain military walk of the young man's clumsy legs, his
uncouth clothes, his pale visage winged by blushing ears of coral pink.

"The Eitel's in, then," replied Cesare. And they let the young Teuton
vanish in the vision of mixed lives.

Down the lane of music and chatter and drink he passed slowly, like a
man just wakened,--assailed by Oriental noise and smells, jostled by the
races of all latitudes and longitudes, surrounded and solitary, unheeded
and self-conscious. With a villager's awkwardness among crowds, he made
his way to a German shipping-office.