But no one stopped it, and he was glad, punching on wearily and endlessly with his one arm, battering away at a bloody something before him that was not a face but a horror, an oscillating, hideous, gibbering, nameless thing that persisted before his wavering vision and would not go away.  And he punched on and on, slower and slower, as the last shreds of vitality oozed from him, through centuries and aeons and enormous lapses of time, until, in a dim way, he became aware that the nameless thing was sinking, slowly sinking down to the rough board-planking of the bridge.  And the next moment he was standing over it, staggering and swaying on shaky legs, clutching at the air for support, and saying in a voice he did not recognize:-

“D’ye want any more?  Say, d’ye want any more?”

He was still saying it, over and over,—­demanding, entreating, threatening, to know if it wanted any more,—­when he felt the fellows of his gang laying hands on him, patting him on the back and trying to put his coat on him.  And then came a sudden rush of blackness and oblivion.

The tin alarm-clock on the table ticked on, but Martin Eden, his face buried on his arms, did not hear it.  He heard nothing.  He did not think.  So absolutely had he relived life that he had fainted just as he fainted years before on the Eighth Street Bridge.  For a full minute the blackness and the blankness endured.  Then, like one from the dead, he sprang upright, eyes flaming, sweat pouring down his face, shouting:-

“I licked you, Cheese-Face!  It took me eleven years, but I licked you!”

His knees were trembling under him, he felt faint, and he staggered back to the bed, sinking down and sitting on the edge of it.  He was still in the clutch of the past.  He looked about the room, perplexed, alarmed, wondering where he was, until he caught sight of the pile of manuscripts in the corner.  Then the wheels of memory slipped ahead through four years of time, and he was aware of the present, of the books he had opened and the universe he had won from their pages, of his dreams and ambitions, and of his love for a pale wraith of a girl, sensitive and sheltered and ethereal, who would die of horror did she witness but one moment of what he had just lived through—­one moment of all the muck of life through which he had waded.

He arose to his feet and confronted himself in the looking-glass.

“And so you arise from the mud, Martin Eden,” he said solemnly.  “And you cleanse your eyes in a great brightness, and thrust your shoulders among the stars, doing what all life has done, letting the ‘ape and tiger die’ and wresting highest heritage from all powers that be.”

He looked more closely at himself and laughed.

“A bit of hysteria and melodrama, eh?” he queried.  “Well, never mind.  You licked Cheese-Face, and you’ll lick the editors if it takes twice eleven years to do it in.  You can’t stop here.  You’ve got to go on.  It’s to a finish, you know.”