a Master of Arts and was wavering between a natural bent for school-teaching and an urge to "go in for law," giggled at Paul's most serious remarks, for he had been told Paul had a sense of humour.
Skinny Wiggins, whose profession was uncertain but who disappeared at intervals to "work on a tug," addressed Paul with a casualness that was meant to cloak honest stupefaction. For Skinny, Paul's transformation into a man who could dominate him with smiles, swift speech and even, as he suspected, muscle, was in the category of things unfathomable. In the end Skinny took to passing him with a nod, his hands thrust into his pockets, his cap over his eye, his cheek filled with chewing tobacco.
Mark Laval was the greatest disappointment. Throughout his youth Paul had thought of the French lad as a genius. He had looked forward with intense curiosity to seeing what Mark had made of himself. On his second day at home he met Mark at the post office, and it was evident his drunken father had made good the promise to "kick all the nonsense out of him." There were even signs that he had taught his son the delights of the bottle. Mark was down from camp with a split finger. He had grown into a giant. It was easy to see that he had never worn a presentable suit of clothes nor come under any refining personal influence. On recognizing Paul, however, his remarkable eyes gave forth a reflection of the wistful enthusiasm of former days. Not once did he complain of the ill fortune that had denied him an education, a home, a hundred desired boons, yet every vibration of his voice and every gesture proclaimed a brutalized, murdered longing for opportunities to discipline the creative forces that had welled up in him. It was with genuine reluctance that Paul, after a half hour's conversation, concluded that Mark's failure was due to absence of organizing ability. There
