themselves, facing each other, two boys.

One of these boys remembers the moment to this day. A journey
accomplished with Care for a travelling companion usually adheres to
the wheels of memory until those wheels are still. Grim Care was
with these boys in the railway carriage. A great catastrophe had
come to them. A FitzHenry had failed to pass into her Majesty's
Navy. Back and back through the generations--back to the days when
England had no navy--she had always been served at sea by a
FitzHenry. Moreover, there had always been a Henry of that name on
the books. Henry, the son of Henry, had, as a matter of course,
gone down to the sea in a ship, had done his country's business in
the great waters.

There was, if they could have looked at it from a racial point of
view, one small grain of consolation. The record was not even now
snapped--for Henry had succeeded, Luke it was who had failed.

Henry sat with his back to the engine, looking out over the flat
meadow-land, with some moisture remarkably like a tear in either
eye. The eyes were blue, deep, and dark like the eastern horizon
when the sun is setting over the sea. The face was brown, and oval,
and still. It looked like a face that belonged to a race, something
that had been handed down with the inherent love of blue water. It
is probable that many centuries ago, a man with features such as
these, with eyes such as these, and crisp, closely curling hair, had
leaped ashore from his open Viking boat, shouting defiance to the
Briton.

This son of countless Henrys sat and thought the world was hollow,