The ocean had deceived him, laughed at him, cheated him. He turned from
the shore unsteadily, walked back to his camp and knocked the neck from
one of the two remaining bottles. A few hours later, sodden, sottish, he
lay without motion, face to the sky. And as he breathed thickly, one
bleeding hand still holding the empty bottle, a bird from an overhanging
branch looked down upon him: a tiny bird, little bigger than his thumb,
that carried a bright, beautiful spot of red on its breast, cocked its
head questioningly.

* * * * *




PART TWO

CHAPTER I

THE WHEELS OF JUSTICE


London, in the spring! Sunshine; the Thames agleam with silver ripples,
singing as it flows; red sails! Joyous London that has emerged from fogs
and basks beneath blue skies! Thoroughfares that give forth a glad hum;
wheels singing, too; whips that crack in sprightly arpeggios. On the
streets, people, not shadows, who walk with a swing; who really seem to
breath and not slink uncannily by! Eyes that regard you with human
expression; faces that seem capable of emotion; figures adorned in
keeping with the bright realities of the moment. London; old London
young again; grimy, repulsive London now bright, shimmering, beautiful!