Every summer Raymond had a two-weeks' holiday, which he spent at
Middleborough with some relatives of his father's. He had the
pronounced love of the sea that is usual with those born and bred
in seaport towns. His earliest memories went back to great deep-
water ships, their jib-booms poking into the second-story windows
of the city front, their decks hoarsely melodious with the yo-
heave-yo of straining seamen. The smell of tar, the sight of
enormous anchors impending above the narrow street, the lofty
masts piercing the sky in a tangle of ropes and blocks, the exotic
cargoes mountains high--all moved him like a poem. He knew no
pleasure like that of sailing his cousin's sloop; he loved every
plank of her dainty hull; it was to him a privilege to lay his
hand to any task appertaining to her, however humble or hard. To
calk, to paint, to polish brasswork; to pump out bilge; to set up
the rigging; to sit cross-legged and patch sails; and, best of
all, to put her lee rail under in a spanking breeze and race her
seaward against the mimic fleet--Ah, how swiftly those bright
days passed, how bitter was the parting and the return, all too
soon, to the dingy offices of the railroad.
It never occurred to him to think his own lot hard, or to contrast
himself with other men of his age, who at forty-two were mostly
substantial members of society, with interests, obligations,
responsibilities, to which he himself was an utter stranger. Under
the iron bondage of his mother he had remained a child.
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