I had lived among a rough, reckless set, had experienced enough of the seamy side of life to be somewhat careless.
I would take the chance, at least, in hope of escape from this routine.
All the rest of the day, for this meeting had occurred early in the afternoon, I labored quietly, loading and unloading lumber, my muscles aching from a species of toil to which I had not yet become accustomed, my mind active in imagination over the possibilities of this new employment.

I was not obliged to live this sort of life, but the uneasy spirit of adventure held me.

My father, from whom I had not heard a word in two years, was a prominent manufacturer in a New England village.

The early death of my mother had left me to his care when I was but ten years old, and we failed to understand each other, drifting apart, until a final quarrel had sent me adrift.

No doubt this was more my fault than his, although he was so deeply immersed in business that he failed utterly to understand the restless soul of a boy.