"
Carefully, so that no sound should break the stillness, he stowed the
chain in the bow, and then worked the skiff around until it pointed out
into the stream. Then, with his hands grasping the sides of the little
craft, and the weight of his body on one knee in the stern, he pushed
vigorously with his free foot against the bank and so was carried well
out from the shore. As the boat lost its momentum, the strong current
caught it and whirled it away down the river.
Groping in the darkness, the man found his bottle of whisky, and working
the cork out with his pocketknife, drank long and deep.
Already, save for a single light, the town was lost in the night. As
the man watched that red spot on the black wall, the stream swung
his drifting boat around a bend, and the light vanished. The dreadful
mystery of the river drew close. The world of men was far, very far
away. Centuries ago, the man had faced himself in the mirror, and had
obeyed the voice that summoned him into the darkness. In fancy, now, he
saw his empty boat swept on and on. Through what varied scenes would it
drift? To what port would the mysterious will of the river carry it? To
what end would it at last come in its helplessness?
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.
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