At eleven years of age they again faced one another, two vigorous boys from different streets of the city, each a leader of his band. There had been a "gang fight," a battle with sticks and stones, with charges and countercharges, retreats and routs. There had been a challenge from one leader, accepted by the other. They stood for a moment, each backed by his following; then one reached down for a chip, which he placed on his shoulder. All boyhood knows the consequences of knocking off a chip; but this one was not knocked off. The other boy also reached for a chip and placed it on his shoulder. And so they stood, silent, scowling, each waiting for a move on the part of the other, each dominated by a hate and a fear that he could not measure by any experience, but which surpassed in strength and grip all other emotions he had known.
"Soak him, Jonesy! Knock it off!" "Don't take that from any man, Smithy! Hit him!" "What's the matter with you?" "Paste him!" came from the combined following; but neither made a move. Slowly, like two tomcats similarly placed, with baleful, glittering eyes, they backed away until surrounded by their followers. Then came cries of derision and contempt, ending in a vigorous onslaught by both leaders, in which several critics bit the dust, and which partly restored their prestige. But it took many days of such tutelage before the discredited leaders regained their influence over the weaker spirits and impressed upon them the fact that they were not afraid to fight. Their excuses and explanations were many, but bore no relation to the real cause of the delinquency.
There were no more gang fights, to the relief of the residents and the police, and the enemies tried to avoid meeting; but when it was unavoidable they passed with quick, defiant, and sullen glances into each other's eyes. Once an involuntary raising of a hand by one was construed into a menace by the other, but he got no farther than to duplicate the gesture. Some intangible power seemed to paralyze his tongue and his muscles. Yet neither boy was a coward in the ordinary sense, nor lacking in the qualities of generosity and forgiveness. Young Smith, while bathing with other boys in the East River at Eighty-sixth Street, swam out into the swift current after a drowning lad, larger than himself, and who had lately bullied him on land, and, by diving again and again, secured him, only to find himself too exhausted to bring him in. A passing tug rescued them, the bully unconscious and Smith at his last gasp. The newspapers made him a hero, and the grateful bully, knowing Smith's enemy, offered to thrash him; but the same paralyzing inhibition prevented Smith from sanctioning this.
Jones, employed as elevator boy in a high building, emulated the feat a little later. Cool, and steady of nerve, he ran his car up and down through the smoke of a fire that gutted the building, and brought down to safety a half-hundred people, being rescued himself on the last trip, suffocating on the floor of his car. He, too, was made a hero, but bore his honors as modestly as Smith.
These experiences seemed to have a marked effect upon their future development. The qualities of courage, endurance, and masculine virility seemed of more importance than the intellectual and moral attributes. Jones declined a clerical position in the office of the skyscraper; and Smith, who could have been educated at college by the father of the bully, chose to ship in the navy as seaman apprentice. Shortly after, young Jones, unaware of Smith's step, yet influenced by the fate that was guiding their paths in parallel lines, joined the schoolship St. Mary, and on graduation entered the merchant marine as able seaman, with a scholar's knowledge of navigation. Smith served his time as apprentice, was honorably discharged as petty officer; and as to reach this rating he must master the study of navigation, he faced the world at twenty-one as well equipped in this as was Jones; then, as under the existing laws he could never obtain a commission in the navy, he chose a field where his knowledge was of use. About the same time as Jones he, too, shipped before the mast, and the Seven Seas engulfed them. But each learned of the other through letters from home.
Life in deep-water ships is a school of evolution in which the law of the survival of the fittest has full play. Weaklings, mental or physical, die on the first voyage, or quit at the end of it. Soft men become hard men; hard men become iron men; iron men lose their human attributes. As the stronger virtues of nerve, pluck, and stamina increase, so do the softer qualities of mercy and kindness decline. Both young men were starved and ill-treated before the mast, until, accepting it as the law of the calling, they fought against it to the after end of the ship, then to enforce it against the weaker spirits they had distanced. Each in time became a competent second mate with a growing sense of his importance; then a first mate, with a fixed and accepted reputation for "buckoism" that reached across the thousand miles of sea to the other. Smith, drinking in a saloon at Callao, heard of Black Jones's feat in quelling the Eldorado mutiny with a belaying pin and cursed him mentally in furious envy. Jones, blackguarding a man he had just ironed in the 'tween deck at sea, heard from the victim of a man who could take him down—Bully Smith, who sailed out of New York.
Smith drank deeper from the news of Jones, and went to sea further committed to the blind worship of force. Jones insanely struck the man in irons, and in a week had ironed three others whom he had goaded into mutinous resentment of his abuse. Two strong, positive souls at the opposite ends of the earth, united by the first and lowest of primordial emotions—hatred and fear—were reinforcing each other to their mutual undoing. Had the kindergarten teacher done her duty and brought them together in childhood, or had they fought it out as boys, this might have been averted. Yet there came another chance in middle life.
The fate which gripped them sent one east from San Francisco, and the other west from New York, and the two ships sighted each other at the crossing point of voyages. Here a vicious, biting cold south-westerly gale blew the vessels against the rocky shores of Cape Horn, and in the furious turmoil of surf, backed by mountainous antarctic seas that picked both ships to pieces, but two men reached the shore alive—two strong, hardy, and enduring mates, Smith and Jones. Bruised and bleeding, drenched, freezing, and exhausted they painfully climbed the rocks five miles apart, and struck inland over a hummocky plateau, walking fast to keep out the cold while the moisture in their clothing stiffened to ice, not knowing where they were going, but dimly hoping for aid from the savages.
Through snow and sleet and raging polar wind they staggered on, making for the cañonlike aperture in the hills to the north that showed faintly in the lulls of the storm. Famished for want of food, tortured with thirst that snow would not relieve, racked in every bone and muscle with the awful pain of extreme fatigue, and not daring to halt for fear of the drowsiness that fought the fatigue and presaged death, with the name of God often on their lips—but not in prayer—they degenerated in two nights and a day into a couple of unreasoning wild beasts; but not yet insane, for they remembered one another when they rounded a huge pinnacle of rock at the head of the cañon and met face to face.
Two six-foot, bearded, ragged, and disheveled human brutes faced each other a hundred miles from their kind. And instead of their common suffering uniting them, their common soul mutually repelled them. But instead of silently and scowlingly backing away like the tomcats of boyhood, they snarled and growled incoherently like two rival polar bears, then turned and walked apart, each with what dignity he could assume under the circumstances. They did not enter the cañon; Smith turned east, Jones west, and their further suffering has no place in this story. They were on Hermite Island, and in time, with the help of sealers, Smith reached the Falklands, where he shipped before the mast for Liverpool; and Jones, Punta Arenas, where he got passage for Valparaiso.