beginning to show the wear and tear of constant use. I have worn it
for weeks and weeks. I have slept with it under my pillow. Observe
it--a blue-serge coat. Ever hear of the djinn in the bottle? Like
enough. But did you ever hear of a djinn in a blue-serge coat?
_Stitched_ in!"

Something like this was always rushing into his throat; and he had
to sink his nails into his palms to stop his mouth. Very
fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. It was not an
affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and
defiance. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged
illness. To be ill and helpless.

He went on munching his water-chestnuts, and stared at the skyline.
He hated horizons. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he
let his gaze rest upon the horizon. An enormous Hand that rose up
swiftly, blotting out the sky. A Hand that strove to reach his
shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. The scrutiny of any
strange man provoked a sweaty terror. What a God-forsaken fool he
was! And dimly, out there somewhere in the South Seas--the beach!

Already he sensed the fascination of the inevitable; and with this
fascination came the idea of haste, to get there quickly and have
done. Odd, but he had never thought of the beach until this girl
(who looked as if she had stepped out of the family album) referred
to it with a familiarity which was as astonishing as it was
profoundly sad.

The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white
man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing