The Imp and the Author
and suitability, to the mocking crew who vied with each other in describing his probable sleepiness, seasickness, homesickness, in case he went on that moonlight sail, humanity had conspired against him.
From a ledge of rock he pulled out a tiny boat with a draggled dirty sail, and crowded the bowsprit into his hip pocket. It interfered with his gait and prevented walking with ease, but he pushed on: there are mental conditions, it is well known, when physical discomfort is rather a relief than otherwise.
Far away before him the long white beach rolled out; a half-mile away a great rock jutted up, and under its ledges there spread a cunning little pool that just suited his tiny boat. He had gone there once in happier times with those who, far from scorning his company, had themselves suggested it. They had taken a glorious lunch in a big basket, and the day stood out in his memory white and shining. He would go there now and summon up remembrance of things past.
The Imp's blue denim legs were short, and the obstruction in his hip pocket made his walk
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