remembered that there were other men, many men, who had mastered it; and
he breathed a great oath, passionately, under his breath, swearing that
his brain could do what theirs had done.

And so he wandered on, alternating between depression and elation as he
stared at the shelves packed with wisdom. In one miscellaneous section
he came upon a "Norrie's Epitome." He turned the pages reverently. In a
way, it spoke a kindred speech. Both he and it were of the sea. Then he
found a "Bowditch" and books by Lecky and Marshall. There it was; he
would teach himself navigation. He would quit drinking, work up, and
become a captain. Ruth seemed very near to him in that moment. As a
captain, he could marry her (if she would have him). And if she
wouldn't, well--he would live a good life among men, because of Her, and
he would quit drinking anyway. Then he remembered the underwriters and
the owners, the two masters a captain must serve, either of which could
and would break him and whose interests were diametrically opposed. He
cast his eyes about the room and closed the lids down on a vision of ten
thousand books. No; no more of the sea for him. There was power in all
that wealth of books, and if he would do great things, he must do them on
the land. Besides, captains were not allowed to take their wives to sea
with them.

Noon came, and afternoon. He forgot to eat, and sought on for the books
on etiquette; for, in addition to career, his mind was vexed by a simple
and very concrete problem: _When you meet a young lady and she asks you
to call, how soon can you call_? was the way he worded it to himself. But
when he found the right shelf, he sought vainly for the answer. He was
appalled at the vast edifice of etiquette, and lost himself in the mazes
of visiting-card conduct between persons in polite society. He abandoned
his search. He had not found what he wanted, though he had found that it