Chapter XIX

CHAPTER XIX

Ruth and her family were home again, and Martin, returned to
Oakland, saw much of her. Having gained her degree, she was doing
no more studying; and he, having worked all vitality out of his
mind and body, was doing no writing. This gave them time for each
other that they had never had before, and their intimacy ripened
fast.

At first, Martin had done nothing but rest. He had slept a great
deal, and spent long hours musing and thinking and doing nothing.
He was like one recovering from some terrible bout if hardship.
The first signs of reawakening came when he discovered more than
languid interest in the daily paper. Then he began to read again -
light novels, and poetry; and after several days more he was head
over heels in his long-neglected Fiske. His splendid body and
health made new vitality, and he possessed all the resiliency and
rebound of youth.

Ruth showed her disappointment plainly when he announced that he
was going to sea for another voyage as soon as he was well rested.

"Why do you want to do that?" she asked.

"Money," was the answer. "I'll have to lay in a supply for my next
attack on the editors. Money is the sinews of war, in my case -
money and patience."

"But if all you wanted was money, why didn't you stay in the
laundry?"

"Because the laundry was making a beast of me. Too much work of
that sort drives to drink."

She stared at him with horror in her eyes.

"Do you mean - ?" she quavered.

It would have been easy for him to get out of it; but his natural
impulse was for frankness, and he remembered his old resolve to be
frank, no matter what happened.

"Yes," he answered. "Just that. Several times."

She shivered and drew away from him.

"No man that I have ever known did that - ever did that."

"Then they never worked in the laundry at Shelly Hot Springs," he
laughed bitterly. "Toil is a good thing. It is necessary for
human health, so all the preachers say, and Heaven knows I've never
been afraid of it. But there is such a thing as too much of a good
thing, and the laundry up there is one of them. And that's why I'm
going to sea one more voyage. It will be my last, I think, for
when I come back, I shall break into the magazines. I am certain
of it."

She was silent, unsympathetic, and he watched her moodily,
realizing how impossible it was for her to understand what he had
been through.

"Some day I shall write it up - 'The Degradation of Toil' or the
'Psychology of Drink in the Working-class,' or something like that
for a title."

Never, since the first meeting, had they seemed so far apart as
that day. His confession, told in frankness, with the