Old Junk

Hammond never knows how many people share the house with him. "I've tried to find out, but the next day one of 'em has died and two more are born." It is such a hive that most o...

Between that old self and the man they see, there is an abyss of dread. He has passed through it. To them the war is official _communiques_, the amplifying dispatches of war cor...

The derelict was a schooner, a lifeless and soddened hulk, so heavy and uncontesting that its foundering seemed at hand. The waters poured back and forth at her waist, as though...

These men are all dressed alike; they are a tide of men. They all look alike. Their mouths are set. They move together with the common, irresistible, uncritical urge of migrator...

But best of all books for midnight are travel books. Once I was lost every night for months with Doughty in the _Arabia Deserta_. He is a craggy author. A long course of the ord...

Very well. There was nothing for it but to fill another pipe, and dwell with some dismay upon such things as, for instance, the way one's light grows smoky with age. Is there a...

One evening I spoke to Mr. Monk of his boy. The boy, I said, seemed a strange little fellow. Mr. Monk, in his soiled, white apron, turned on me, and said nothing at first, but t...

This has nothing to do with the storm. This African shadow does not chill you because you wish you were home, and home is far away. It does not come of your rare and lucky idlen...

_The author of_ OLD JUNK _has been called a legend. A colleague who during the later stages of the war visited the western front assured me that this was the right word by which...

It was Meredith's country, and Atlantic weather in Lent. The downs were dilated and clear as though seen through crystal. A far company of pines on the high skyline were magnifi...