The Dark Star

Over the drenched sea wall gulls whirled and eddied above the spouting

spray; the grey breakwater was smothered under exploding combers;

quai, docks, white-washed lighthouse, swept with spindrift, appeared

and disappeared through the stormy obscurity as the tender from the

Channel packet fought its way shoreward with Neeland's luggage lashed

in the cabin, and Neeland himself sticking to the deck like a fly to a

frantic mustang, enchanted with the whole business.

For the sea, at last, was satisfying this young man; he savoured now

what he had longed for as a little boy, guiding a home-made raft on

the waters of Neeland's mill pond in the teeth of a summer breeze.

Before he had ever seen the ocean he wanted all it had to give short

of shipwreck and early decease. He had experienced it on the Channel

during the night.

There was only one other passenger aboard--a tall, lean, immaculately

dressed man with a ghastly pallor, a fox face, and ratty eyes, who

looked like an American and who had been dreadfully sick. Not caring

for his appearance, Neeland did not speak to him. Besides, he was

having too good a time to pay attention to anybody or anything except

the sea.

A sailor had lent Neeland some oilskins and a sou'-wester; and he

hated to put them off--hated the calmer waters inside the basin where

the tender now lay rocking; longed for the gale and the heavy seas

again, sorry the crossing was ended.

He cast a last glance of regret at the white fury raging beyond the

breakwater as he disembarked among a crowd of porters, gendarmes,

soldiers, and assorted officials; then, following his porter to the

customs, he prepared to submit to the unvarying indignities incident

to luggage examination in France.

He had leisure, while awaiting his turn, to buy a novel, "Les

Bizarettes," of Maurice Bertrand; time, also, to telegraph to the

Princess Mistchenka. The fox-faced man, who looked like an American,

was now speaking French like one to a perplexed official, inquiring

where the Paris train was to be found. Neeland listened to the fluent

information on his own account, then returned to the customs bench.

But the unusually minute search among his effects did not trouble him;

the papers from the olive-wood box were buttoned in his breast pocket;

and after a while the customs officials let him go to the train which

stood beside an uncovered concrete platform beyond the quai, and

toward which the fox-faced American had preceded him on legs that

still wobbled with seasickness.

There were no Pullmans attached to the train, only the usual first,

second, and third class carriages with compartments; and a new style

corridor car with central aisle and lettered doors to compartments

holding four.

Into one of these compartments Neeland stepped, hoping for seclusion,

but backed out again, the place being full of artillery officers

playing cards.