on a dark night, groping about in the unfamiliar running rigging. Well,
he decided, it was up to him to get acquainted in this new world. He had
never seen anything that he couldn't get the hang of when he wanted to
and it was about time for him to want to learn to talk the things that
were inside of him so that she could understand. _She_ was bulking large
on his horizon.

"Now Longfellow--" she was saying.

"Yes, I've read 'm," he broke in impulsively, spurred on to exhibit and
make the most of his little store of book knowledge, desirous of showing
her that he was not wholly a stupid clod. "'The Psalm of Life,'
'Excelsior,' an' . . . I guess that's all."

She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt, somehow, that her smile was
tolerant, pitifully tolerant. He was a fool to attempt to make a
pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most likely had written
countless books of poetry.

"Excuse me, miss, for buttin' in that way. I guess the real facts is
that I don't know nothin' much about such things. It ain't in my class.
But I'm goin' to make it in my class."

It sounded like a threat. His voice was determined, his eyes were
flashing, the lines of his face had grown harsh. And to her it seemed
that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch had become unpleasantly
aggressive. At the same time a wave of intense virility seemed to surge
out from him and impinge upon her.

"I think you could make it in--in your class," she finished with a laugh.