We--the apprentices and I--are swaying and clinging to one another under the stars.

We are singing a rollicking sea song, all save one who sits on the ground and weeps; and we are marking the rhythm with waving square faces.

From up and down the street come far choruses of sea-voices similarly singing, and life is great, and beautiful and romantic, and magnificently mad.
And next, after the blackness, I open my eyes in the early dawn to see a Japanese woman, solicitously anxious, bending over me.

She is the port pilot's wife and I am lying in her doorway.

I am chilled and shivering, sick with the after-sickness of debauch.