And the man himself,--the human soul-craft,--what of him? As he had
pushed his material boat out into the stream to drift, unguided and
helpless, so, presently, he would push himself out from the shore of
all that men call life. Through what scenes would he drift? To what port
would the will of an awful invisible stream carry him? To what end would
he finally come, in his helplessness?

Again the man drank--and again.

And then, with face upturned to the leaden clouds, he laughed
aloud--laughed until the ghostly shores gave back his laughter, and the
voices of the night were hushed and still.

The laughter ended with a wild, reckless, defiant yell.

Springing to his feet in the drifting boat, the man shook his clenched
fist at the darkness, and with insane fury cursed the life he had left
behind.

The current whirled the boat around, and the man faced down the stream.
He laughed again; and, lifting his bottle high, uttered a reckless,
profane toast to the unknown toward which he was being carried by the
river in the night.



CHAPTER III.

A MISSING LETTER.