sliding away from her with every beat of the ship's heart, there was no
one who knew her except an unknown, almost legendary, uncle. She sat
down on a covered hatchway, suddenly a little weak at the knees.

People passed and repassed, worrying the stewards with foolish and
unnecessary questions, which they answered vaguely as they hurried by.
The thin girl stood leaning over the rail watching the brown shores that
imprisoned her sister: four men who had apparently already made friends
came along and sat down by Marcella, exchanging plans. One of them was
horribly pock-marked; a younger man with red hair, queer shifty eyes and
a habit of gesticulating a great deal when he talked was apparently
going out with him. As the mudflats of the Thames glided by dreamily
Marcella found their conversation slipping into her consciousness. The
man with the red hair was talking: as he waved his right hand she saw
that it had the three middle fingers missing. Her eyes followed it as if
it hypnotized her.

"Going out to Sydney?" asked the pock-marked man of the two young farm
hands who were staring about them open-mouthed. They nodded stupidly.

"Got 'ny tin?" asked the red-haired man. The younger farm hand, a ruddy,
clean, foolish boy of twenty, jerked his thumb towards his friend.

"Dick's got it."

"Going to a job?"

"Maybe," said the elder of the two, a little on his guard.

"Well, what I was finkin' was vat vis is a six-weeks' trip, an' if we