He had seen men like that—­many of them—­content to sit in the sun, to be fed and let alone.  Their hearts were broken as well as their bodies.

But except for the distortion of his face, he returned as he had gone away, a man in full possession of his faculties, his passions, his strength.  He could not be passive either physically or mentally.  His mind was too alert, his spirit too sensitive, his body too crammed with vitality to see life go swinging by and have no hand in its manifestations and adventures.

Yet he was growing discouraged.  People shunned him, shrank from contact.  His scarred face seemed to dry up in others the fountain of friendly intercourse.  If he were a leper or a man convicted of some hideous crime, his isolation could not be more complete.  It was as if the sight of him affected men and women with a sense of something unnatural, monstrous.  He sweated under this.  But he was alive, and life was a reality to him, the will to live a dominant force.  Unless he succumbed in a moment of madness, he knew that he would continue to struggle for life and happiness because that was instinctive, and fundamental instincts are stronger than logic, reason, circumstance.

How he was going to make his life even tolerably worth living was a question that harassed him with disheartening insistence as he watched through his window the slanting lines of rain and listened to the mournful cadences of the wind.

“I must get to work at something,” he said to himself.  “If I sit still and think much more——­”

He did not carry that last sentence to its logical conclusion.  Deliberately he strove to turn his thought out of the depressing channels in which it flowed and tried to picture what he should set about doing.

Not office work; he could not hope for any inside position such as his experience easily enabled him to fill.  He knew timber, the making and marketing of it, from top to bottom.  But he could not see himself behind a desk, directing or selling.  His face would frighten clients.  He smiled; that rare grimace he permitted himself when alone.  Very likely he would have to accept the commonest sort of labor, in a mill yard, or on a booming ground, among workers not too sensitive to a man’s appearance.

Staring through the streaming window, Hollister looked down on the traffic flow in the street, the hurrying figures that braved the storm in pursuit of pleasure or of necessity, and while that desperate loneliness gnawed at him, he felt once more a sense of utter defeat, of hopeless isolation—­and for the first time he wished to hide, to get away out of sight and hearing of men.

It was a fugitive impulse, but it set his mind harking back to the summer he had spent holidaying along the British Columbia coast long ago.  The tall office buildings, with yellow window squares dotting the black walls, became the sun-bathed hills looking loftily down on rivers and bays and inlets that he knew.  The wet floor of the street itself became a rippled arm of the sea, stretching far and silent between wooded slopes where deer and bear and all the furtive wild things of the forest went their accustomed way.