A newsboy rushed along,
yelling at the top of his voice. The raucous cry took shape: "Kroojer's
reply. Lytest from Sarth Hafricar." That day's papers had spoken of
probable war, and Royson wanted to be there. He had dreamed of doing
some work for the press, and was a reader and writer in his spare time,
while he kept his muscles fit by gymnastics. But those past yearnings
were merged in his new calling. He was a sailor now, a filibuster of
sorts. The bo's'n's whistle would take the place of the bugle-call.
Would that have pleased his mother? Well, poor soul, she had never
imagined that her son would be compelled to chafe his life out at a
city desk. The very, air of London had become oppressive; the hurrying
crowd was unsympathetic to his new-found joy of living; so, without any
well-defined motive, he sought the ample solitude of the park.
Be it noted that he usually went straight from point to point without
regard to obstacles. Hence, in his devious wanderings of that
remarkable day, he was departing from fixed habit, and, were he a
student of astrology, he would assuredly have sought to ascertain what
planets were in the ascendant at a quarter-past ten in the morning, and
half-past seven in the evening.
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