It would be very good to be Capes’ friend. White looked mysteriously about the room as though to be sure that no one was listening. . He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes.
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