When he left, Guy Vanton had in his pocket the sum of $350. With part of this he bought a railway ticket to San Francisco. He boarded the train, and as it was evening, dined, retreated to the club car, smoked and read for a couple of hours, and then went to his compartment.

The main thing was plainly to hit upon something to do that would make a little money, enough for his necessities, while he made acquaintance with the world, the real world, the world outside himself, outside Blue Port, outside his peculiar past.

It had taken him a long time to realize that what he needed, what he must have if life were to become worth living, was a touchstone in the shape of some direct[249] experience, real and rough—something that would not be eaten away by the acid of his thoughts nor carven into gargoyles and grotesques, the chisellings of memory.

Guy Vanton was a poet. It was natural that he should recall the lives and adventures of other poets, and............