"I've knocked all over the world—and made a few mistakes," said the derelict. "Oh, nothin' that would get me in trouble with the cops! But I just found out that I'm clutterin' up the earth and don't amount to anything. I'm sick of half starvin' to death, and workin' like a dog when I get the chance just to get enough to keep a few old clothes hung on me."
"Disgusted generally with your lot?" Prale asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Friends or relatives?"
"Not any."
"What's your name?" Prale asked.
"You mean my real name? I don't remember. It's been so long since I've used it, and I've used so many others since that I don't know. What's the difference?"
"I'll call you Murk," said Prale. "That expresses the dark river, the deed you were about to do, and the evident state of your feelings."
"It's as good as any, I suppose."
"What's your particular grievance against the world in general?"