And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. The Oriental waterfronts were rank with the stuff. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. Quick, now. "Good Lord!—cannibals?" "Aye. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. . A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City.
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