I never rightly understood that I had a son before this.

Harve's got to be a great boy.
'Anything I can fetch you, dear?
'Cushion under your head?
Well, we'll go down to the wharf again and look around." Harvey was his father's shadow in those days, and the two strolled along side by side, Cheyne using the grades as an excuse for laying his hand on the boy's square shoulder.

It was then that Harvey noticed and admired what had never struck him before--his father's curious power of getting at the heart of new matters as learned from men in the street.
"How d'you make 'em tell you everything without opening your head ?" demanded the son, as they came out of a rigger's loft.
"I've dealt with quite a few men in my time, Harve, and one sizes 'em up somehow, I guess.

I know something about myself, too." Then, after a pause, as they sat down on a wharf-edge: "Men can 'most always tell when a man has handled things for himself, and then they treat him as one of themselves." "Same as they treat me down at Wouverman's wharf.

I'm one of the crowd now.