Beta Book

He pictured himself shipping as third engineer at the Manihiki
Islands or engaged for taking moving pictures of an aeroplane
flight in Algiers. He _had_ to get away from Zappism. He had to
be out on the iron seas, where the battle-ships and liners went
by like a marching military band. But he couldn't get started.
Once beyond Sandy Hook, he would immediately know all about
engines and fighting. It would help, he was certain, to be
shanghaied. But no matter how wistfully, no matter how late at
night he timorously forced himself to loiter among unwashed
English stokers on West Street, he couldn't get himself molested
except by glib persons wishing ten cents "for a place to sleep."
When he had dallied through breakfast that particular morning he
sat about. Once he had pictured sitting about reading
travel-books as a perfect occupation. But it concealed no
exciting little surprises when he could be a Sunday loafer on any
plain Monday. Furthermore, Goaty never made his bed till noon,
and the gray-and-brown-patched coverlet seemed to trail all
about the disordered room.


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