Matthew was paring potatoes; paring, paring potatoes. There was a machine in the corner, paring, too. But Matthew was cheaper than the machine and better. It was not hard work. It was just dull⁠—idiotic, dull. He pared mechanically, with humped shoulders and half-closed eyes. Garbage lay about him, and nauseating smells combined of sour and sweet, decay and ferment, offal and delicacy, made his head dizzy and his stomach acrid. The great ship rose, shivered and screamed, dropped in the gray grave of waters, and groaned as the hot hell of its vast belly drove it relentlessly, furiously forward. The terrible, endless rhythm of the thing⁠—paring, rising, falling, groaning, paring, swaying, with the slosh of the greasy dishwater, in the close hot air, set Matthew to dreaming. + 

He could see again that mother of his⁠—that poor but mighty, purposeful mother⁠—tall, big, and brown. What hands she had⁠—gnarled and knotted; what great, broad feet. How she worked! Yet he seemed never to have realized what work was until now. On the farm⁠—that little forty acres of whitish yellow land, with its tiny grove and river; its sweep of green, white cotton; its geese, its chickens, the cow and the old mule; the low log cabin with its two rooms and wide hall leading to the boarded kitchen behind⁠—how he remembered the building of that third room just before his father went away⁠—work? Work on that curious little hell in paradise had not been work to him; it had been play. He had stopped when he was tired. But mother and the bent old father, had it been work for them⁠—hard, hateful, heavy, endless, uninteresting, dull, stupid? Yes, it must have been like this, save in air and sun; toil must have dulled and hardened them. God! What did this world⁠— + 

“That-a nigger did it⁠—I know!⁠—that-a-there damn nigger!” + 

The Italian bent over him. Matthew looked up at him without interest. His soul was still dreaming far away⁠—rising, falling, paring, glowing. Somebody was always swearing and quarreling in the scullery. Funny for him to be here. It had seemed a matter of honor, life, death, to sail on this particular ship. He had, with endless courtesy and with less than a hundred dollars in his pocket, assured the Princess that he needed nothing. And then⁠—fourth class to Hamburg, standing! and the docks. The Gigantic was there. Would she sail on it? He did not know. He approached the head steward for a job. + 

“No⁠—no more work.” He stood hesitating. A stevedore who staggered past, raining sweat, dropped his barrow and hobbled away. Matthew left his bags, seized the heavy barrow, and trundled it on the ship. It was not difficult to hide until the boat had swung far down the channel. Then he went to the head steward again. + 

“What the hell are you doing here? Just like a damn nigger!” + 

Here again it came from the lips of the fat, lumbering Italian: “⁠—damn-a nigger.” And Matthew felt a flat-handed cuff beside his head that nearly knocked him from the stool. He arose slowly, folded his arms, and looked at the angry man. The Italian was a great baby whom the men picked on and teased and fooled⁠—cruel, senseless sport for people who took curious delight in tricking others of their kind. + 

It was to Matthew an amazing situation⁠—one he could not for the life of him comprehend. These men were at the bottom of life⁠—scullions. They had no pride of work. Who could have pride in such work! But they despised themselves. God was in the first cabin, overeating, guzzling, gambling, sleeping. They despised what He despised. He despised Negroes. He despised Italians, unless they were rich and noble. He despised scullion’s work. All these things the scullions despised. + 

Matthew and the Italian were butts⁠—the Italian openly, Matthew covertly; for they were a little dashed at his silence and carriage. But they sneered and growled at the “nigger” and egged the “dago” on. And the Italian⁠—big, ignorant moron, sweet and childish by nature, wild and bewildered by his strange environment, despised the black man because the others did. + 

This time their companions had slyly slipped potatoes into the Italian’s pan until he had already done twice the work of the others. But the last mess had been too large⁠—he grew suspicious and angry, and he picked on Matthew because he had seen the others sneer at the dark stranger, and he was ready to believe the worst of him. + 

Matthew stood still and looked at the Italian; with a yell the irate man hurled his bulk forward and aimed a blow which struck Matthew’s shoulder, Matthew fell back a step and still stood looking at him. The scullery jeered: + 

“Fight⁠—the nigger and the dago.” + 

Again the fist leaped out and hit Matthew in the nose, but still Matthew stood and did not lift his hand. Why? He could not have said himself. More or less consciously he sensed what a silly mess it all was. He could not soil his hands on this great idiot. He would not stoop to such a brawl. There was a strange hush in the scullery. Somebody yelled, “Scared stiff!” But they yelled weakly, for Matthew did not look scared. He was taller than the Italian, not so big, but his brown muscles rippled delicately on his lithe form. Even with his swelling nose, he did not look scared or greatly perturbed. Then there was a scramble. The kitchen steward suddenly entered, one of the caste of stewards⁠—the visible revelation of God in the cabin; a splendid man, smooth-coated, who made money and yelled at scullions. + 

“Chief!” + 

The Italian ducked, ran and hid, and Matthew was standing alone. + 

The steward blustered: “Fighting, hey?” + 

“No.” + 

“I saw you.” + 

“You lie!” + 

The scullery held its breath. + 

The steward, with purple face, started forward with raised fist and then paused. He was puzzled at that still figure. It wouldn’t do to be mauled or killed before scullions.⁠ ⁠… + 

“All right, nigger⁠—I’ll attend to you later. Get to work, all of you,” he growled. + 

Matthew sat down and began paring, paring, again. But now the dreams had gone. His head ached. His soul felt stripped bare. He kept pondering dully over this room, glancing at the shifty eyes, the hunches and grins; smelling the smells, the steam, the grease, the dishwater. There was so little kindness or sympathy for each other here among these men. They loved cruelty. They hated and despised most of their fellows, and they fell like a pack of wolves on the weakest. Yet they all had the common bond of toil; their sweat and the sweat of toilers like them made one vast ocean around the world. Waves of world-sweat droned in Matthew’s head dizzily, and naked men were driven drowning through it, yet snapping, snarling, fighting back each other as they wallowed. Well, he wouldn’t fight them. That was idiotic. It was human sacrilege. If fight he must, he would fight stewards and cabin gentry⁠—lackeys and gods. + 

He walked stiffly to his berth and sat half-dressed in a corner of the common bunk room, hating to seek his hot, dark, ill-ventilated bunk. The men were growling, sprawling, drinking, and telling smutty stories. They had, it seemed to Matthew, a marvelous poverty of capacity to enjoy⁠—to be happy and to play. + 

The door opened. The kitchen steward came in, followed by a dozen men and women, evidently from the first cabin⁠—fat, sleek persons in evening dress, the women gorgeous and bare, the men pasty-faced and swaggering. All were smoking and flushed with wine. Towns started and stared⁠—My God! If one face appeared there⁠—if the Princess came down and saw this, saw him here! He groaned and stood up quickly, with the half-formed design of walking out. + 

“A ring, men!” called the steward. The scullery glowered, smirked, and shuffled; backed to one side, torn by conflicting motives, hesitating. + 

“These ladies and gentlemen have given a purse of two hundred dollars to have this fight out between the darky and the dago. Strip, you⁠—but keep on your pants. This gentleman is referee. Come, Towns. Now’s the chance for revenge.” + 

The Italian rose, lounged forward, and looked at Towns truculently, furtively. His anger was gone now, and he was not sure Towns had wronged him. Towns looked at him, smiled, and held out his hand. The Italian stared, hesitated, then almost ran and grabbed it. Towns turned to the steward, still watching the door: + 

“We won’t fight,” he said. + 

“We ain’t gonna fight,” echoed the Italian. + 

“Throw them into the ring.” + 

“Try it,” cried Towns. + 

“Try it,” echoed the Italian. + 

The steward turned red and green. He saw a fat fee fading. + 

“So we can’t make you rats fight,” he sneered. + 

“Oh, yes, we’ll fight,” said Matthew, “but we won’t fight each other. If rats must fight they fight cats⁠—and dogs⁠—and hogs.” + 

“Wow!” yelled the scullery, and surged. + 

“Home, James,” squeaked a shrill voice, “they ain’t gonna be no fight tonight.” She had the face of an angel, the clothes of a queen, and the manners of a prostitute. The guests followed her out, giggling, swaying, and swearing. + 

“S’no plash f’r min’ster’s son, nohow,” hiccuped the youth in the rear. + 

The steward lingered and glanced at Matthew, teetering on heel and toe. + 

“So that’s your game. Trying to stir up something, hey? Planning Bolshevik stuff! D’ye know where I’ve half a mind to land you in New York? I’ll tell you! In jail! D’ye hear? In jail!” + 

The room was restless. The grumbling stopped gradually. The men looked as though they wanted to talk to him, but Matthew crept to his bunk and pretended to sleep. What was going to happen? What would they do next? Were they going to make him fight his way over? Must he kill somebody? Of all the muddles that a clean, straight life can suddenly fall to, his seemed the worst. He tossed in his narrow, hot bed in an agony of fear and excitement. He slept and dreamed; he was fighting the world. Blood was spurting, heads falling, ghastly estate bulging, but he slew and slew until his neighbor yelled: + 

“Who the hell you hittin’? Are youse crazy?” And the man fled in fear. + 

Matthew rose early and went to his task⁠—paring, peeling, cutting, paring. Nothing happened. The steward said no further word. The scullery growled, but let Matthew alone. The Italian crept near him like a lost dog, trying in an inarticulate way to say some unspoken word. + 

So Matthew dropped back to his dreams. + 

He was groping toward a career. He wanted to get his hand into the tangles of this world. He wanted to understand. His revolt against medicine became suddenly more than resentment at an unforgivable insult⁠—it became ingrained distaste for the whole narrow career, the slavery of mind and body, the ethical chicanery. His sudden love for a woman far above his station was more than romance⁠—it was a longing for action, breadth, helpfulness, great constructive deeds. + 

And so, rising and falling, working and writhing, dreaming and suffering, he passed his week of days of weeks. He hardly knew when it ended. Only one day, washing dishes, he looked out of the porthole; there was the Statue of Liberty shining.⁠ ⁠… + 

And Matthew laughed. + 