by the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone. Juno turned her head and
blinked an eye or two, indifferent. She ignored him pointedly. Her gaze
returned to the sea. Andy had half put out his hand to stroke her. He
drew it back. He had a sudden bitter desire to swear or kick something.
He went out hastily, closing the door behind him. Juno, with her
immovable gaze, stared out to sea.




IX

Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring
warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There
was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating--of decayed
vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell
the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he
watched the play of life in the dockshed--the backing of horses and the
shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and
the trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales.

He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey--the
sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from
the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are
innumerable details--duties, inspections and quarantines, and delays and
questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs move with
the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep
Sea--without hurry and without rest.

Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made friends