had come to answer the call of the river, and in the preoccupation of
his mind, as he stood there in the night beside the stream, he had not
noticed it, as it lay so nearly invisible in the darkness. Mechanically,
he stooped to feel the chain with his free hand. A moment later, he had
placed his bottle of whisky carefully in the boat, and was loosing the
chain painter from the willow stump.

"Why not?" he said to himself. "It will be easier in midstream,--and
more certain."

Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed the
chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed out
into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little
craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed
vigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried well
out from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current
caught it and whirled it away down the river.

Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and working
the cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep.

Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As
the man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swung
his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful
mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far
away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had
obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he
saw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it
drift? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it? To
what end would it at last come in its helplessness?