“Going to fish with cast-iron worms?” asked Wilson.
“Maybe so. Maybe so.”
He carried the bag lightly once it was in place and forged a path straight ahead with the same indifference to pedestrians he had shown towards teams, apparently deaf to the angry protestations of those who unwisely tried their weight against the heavy bag. Suddenly he turned to the right and clambered down a flight of stairs to a float where a man was bending over a large dory.
“Engaged for to-day?” he demanded of the young fellow who was occupied in bailing out the craft. The man glanced up at Stubbs and then turned his attention to Wilson.
“My friend,” went on Stubbs, “I want to get a little fishin’ ’fore dark. Will you ’commodate me?”
“Get in, then,” growled the owner.
He helped Stubbs lower the bag into the stern, with the question,
“Any more to your party?”
“This is all,” answered Stubbs.
In five minutes Wilson found himself in the prow being rowed out among the very shipping at which a few hours before he had stared with such resentment. What a jackstraw world this had proved itself to him in this last week! It seemed that on the whole he 123 had had very little to do with his own life, that he was being juggled by some unknown hand. And yet he seemed, too, to be moving definitely towards some unknown goal. And this ultimate towards which his life was trending was inseparably bound up with that of the girl. His heart gave a bound as they swung out into the channel. He felt himself to be close on the heels of Jo. It mattered little what lay in between. The incidents of life counted for nothing so long as they helped him to move step by step to her side. He had come to his own again,––come into the knowledge of the strength within him, into the swift current of youth. He realized that it was the privilege of youth to meet life as it came and force it to obey the impulses of the heart. He felt as though the city behind him had laid upon him the oppressive weight of its hand and that now he had shaken it free.