The indolence of his position, however, was not indicative of the state of his mind; for under his weather-beaten old cap, perched sidewise on a tousled head, was a commotion of dreams and schemes, ambitions and plans, whose activities would have put to shame the busiest wharf in the world.
"It's your show, Sandy Kilday!" he said, half aloud, with a bit of a brogue that flavored his speech as the salt flavors the sea air.

"You don't want to be a bloomin' old weather-vane, a-changin' your mind every time the wind blows.

Is it go, or stay ?" The answer, instead of coming, got sidetracked by the train of thought that descended upon him when he was actually face to face with his decision.

All sorts of memories came rushing pell-mell through his brain.

The cold and hungry ones were the most insistent, but he brushed them aside.
The one he clung to longest was the earliest and most shadowy of the lot.