American-bound steamers in July carry few passengers, so Mrs. Wells had been able to reserve a fine corner of the deck for her group, which now invariably included Richard. At this moment as they talked Walter lounged in his chair near the railing while Geraldine and two middle-aged ladies who had been with the Freneau party, and Mr. Freneau himself, were chatting quite near. Geraldine leaned forward.
“Excuse me for listening,” she said. “Richard tells such interesting stories.”
“Oh, this is all true, every bit,” he told her.
“I don’t object to its being untrue,” she rejoined; “the only objection to bad fiction is dulness. This story of yours is not at all dull. What I want to know is what would happen to the world if everybody did as you. The stokers, for instance, live like condemned devils. Don’t tell me they like it. But if they obeyed their own sweet will where should we be?”
“And that chap putting tar on the ropes,” he pointed; “I’ll wager he’d throw that job for a couple of good sovereigns.”
“Of course he would,” she went on. “What I want to know is how you manage to take care of the disagreeable jobs.”
“Very simple,” he said; “I don’t manage at all. I am not my brother’s keeper. My interest is solely in steering myself. I have no theory for the other fellow; I have only pity.”
“How cruelly selfish.”
“Exactly,” he spoke quietly. “The cruelty of living is the most colossal mystery of creation. I don’t pretend to understand it, and I know of no remedy for it. The struggle for existence is the acme of cruelty until you renounce it, as I do. I live my life as simply as I can. I try not to interfere with anyone else’s chance. That’s all I can do.”
“What about the future?” the mother asked. “You will not always be strong.”