"Why in the world are you burying yourself in that pre-historic shanty?
Man alive, the Holland House is only a block away, and there are 'steen hotels of the right sort strung out along Fifth Avenue, 'way up to Central Park----" "It's just a whim," broke in Curtis, who did not feel like explaining at the moment that he was choosing a quiet old inn in a side street because he had been born there! Nevertheless, his words held that ring of decision, of finality in judgment, which invariably forms part of the equipment of men who have lived in wild lands and lorded it over inferior races.

Devar was vaguely conscious, and perhaps slightly resentful, of this compelling quality in his new-found crony.
Oft-times it had quelled him for an instant during some stubbornly contested argument, though he raged at himself just as often for yielding to it, as if, forsooth, he were one of those patient, animal-like, Chinese coolies of whose courage and endurance Curtis spoke so admiringly.

Yet he was drawn to the man, and clung to his friendship.
"Right-o! I s'pose the place owns a telephone," he snickered, and then hurried away to finish packing.

Curtis, whose belongings were locked and strapped hours ago, remained on deck, and watched the preparations for bringing the great liner alongside the Cunard pier.

When her engines were stopped in mid-stream a number of fussy little tugs began nosing her round to starboard.