wave filled his mouth. "Quaint idea-very," he laughed in a cracked, ugly falsetto.

All the ideas that Andy had shut out of his mind-the fathomless deep, the cold, the ooze under him—the unbounded largeness of the ocean-the choking of the breath-the writhing of cold slimy things on the sea bed-flooded back upon him. He shuddered. A great anger seized him against this little yellow thing that had upset his tranquillity, robbed him of his self-confidence.

"Shut up, will you, damn you!" he broke out, and set off again.

"I say," cried the voice anxiously, "don't lose temper—blub -can't do it in the East-I know-can't hurry-awfully sorry."

That was true. He mustn't lose his temper. He mustn't think of those horrible things. Still he swam nervously onward, with the pound of that awkward foot stabbing the darkness behind. It wore upon Andy until he almost screamed. Several times he made up his mind to swim away-to escape from that monotonous reminder of Death. "Can't hurry the East-blub," said the high voice over and over again. Once Andy swam so far ahead that the voice could not be heard. Then he realized with a sudden horror the unutterable loneliness of the ocean. Vague shapes seemed reeling in the darkness, threatening him. The breathing hush of interminable spaces branded his brain like a white-hot iron. At least here was companionship. Andy turned and scanned the blackness. No sound but the swish of little waves-nothing human in that vast pit of the world.

"Hello!" he called wildly.

"Where are you?" said a faint voice. Andy swam swiftly in mortal terror lest he lose the one link that bound him to life. He found the little man resting again, breathing more easily. Thought you'd-blub-gone ahead to get breakfast ready -morning-blub.”

Morning was indeed coming, with the swiftness of the tropics. The clouded sky, that had been so close and black, went gray like the face of a watcher of the sick—a weary, indeterminate gray that seemed to come from no particular point of the compass. In the dull gray-green sea, the phosphorescence gleamed no more.

"You're a great-blub- swimmer-" went on the high voice. "Wish I had learned how-blub-really."

"Yes," said Andy, with renewed confidence. "I've been in the water most

Look!" screamed the little man, "the sun-blub-what a curious direction

Like a gong of red Chinese copper, the sun shot up behind the thick curtain of the sky. Both men turned swiftly to face it. Why," cried Andy, astonished, "it's rising in the north. No! no! we're wrong-we've been swimming wrong! My God! We've been going south-dead south!"

"So we have," muttered the querulous voice," so we have."

66

Lost! we're lost, I tell you!" cried Andy in terror.

"Here, come now," said the little man. "It's not so-blubbad. Can't be very far off. Don't lose your head, my boy. Blub-go slow-you can't hurry-just swim north-east

"How far-how far?" moaned the other, churning the water wildly. He was obsessed with the desire to find land, to find land, to find land; at any cost, to escape from the pitiless immensity of the sea.

"It's not very far," said the cheerful voice. "Came a good bit to the east-blub-before lightning shifted-should sayabout ten miles"

Ten miles! All the night's work wasted! What if his strength should give out. He was terribly afraid of being afraid.

"Come on!" yelled Andy.

They swam along together for a

"Hold up!-blub-you can't

time; then Andy drew ahead. "Hey!" came the voice. hurry- "Andy forced himself to slow down. Three times he distanced the little man; three times he needed all his strength of will to stop. He ached with impatience to let himself out, to sprint, to gain the land and roll in the dry sand. Trying to keep up with him, the little man breathed loudly behind him.

Above them the clouds thinned away, burned into nothingness by the sun. The sky was a flaming blue, and the sea the color of deep Indian jade. A light warm breeze fluttered the tips of the waves.

Andy wondered if his strength would hold out. He imagined

that he felt weariness plucking at his muscles. The sun beat upon his head, and he thought again of frigid and horrible slime in the green, immeasurable profundity. He dared not look ahead.

"Look!" shrilled the little man. Andy raised his eyes. Nothing! With a superb effort, like a steel-head salmon leaping, he lifted himself out of the water. There, on the far edge of the world, three slender palm-trees rose as if from the bosom of the sea.

"Don't hurry, man, don't

"Saved!" cried the high voice. hurry, or you're lost-blub-wait-rest"

But Andy was off, tearing aside the ocean like a motor-boat. He had swung into a racing "crawl," arm flashing over arm, head buried, feet whirring in a chaos of foam, senseless, mad for the touch of the land, crazed with the fear of the sea. His brown, rippling back seemed to leap from wave-crest to wave-crest.

"Wait!" came the voice, farther and farther behind, caught when his head broke water in the fury of his work. Once he leaped out of water to look again. He was not gaining-he was not gaining he must hurry

A little, bald-headed, yellow man, whose moustaches made him look like an awkward seal, swam through the immense murmurous quiet of the South Pacific. Overhead the sky was intensely blue; ahead three palm-trees lifted from a beach dazzling white. Down the little man's face tears streamed unheeded; his breath came in sobs. Once he lifted himself out of the sea. The immense prairie of ocean was empty. No gleaming back plowing along-no wash of shuttling feet-not even a bird in the sky.

So the little man settled back awkwardly to his task. His arms flapped down smartly, his head bored into the wash, one foot came out of the wake like a leaping fish and slapped stiffly down.

And as he swam, he murmured to himself monotonously, in ceaseless iteration:

"Can't hurry-blub-the East-can't-hurry

NEGRO INFLUENCES IN AMERICAN LIFE

C

WALTER WINSTON KENILWORTH

AN it be said that America is falling prey to the collective

soul of the negro? Some sociological writers of promi

nence believe so. Some psychologists are of the opinion. One thing is infallibly certain: if there is any tendency toward such a psycho-physical amalgamation, toward such a national disaster, it should be definitely pointed out and some measures taken to inhibit the influence and avert the increasing danger.

History attests that national degeneracy has followed in the wake of indiscriminate and unchecked racial interblendings. This is, of course, true in a sense relative to the reproduction of species. But from the psychological and occult standpoint the sexual sense is not of as wide a meaning as the mental and suggestive influence which might mark its power on popular life and fancy.

Thought is anterior to conduct and determines its mode, quality and intensity of expression. It lends color to the moral meaning. In this light it is readily understandable how inferior thought-expression, the collective sentiment, conduct and thought of a race inferior in menta-psychical evolution, might definitely affect the life of a superior race by influencing its lower types, if not in fact the average type, which is not far removed from the lower. A civilization must not be confounded with the average type. The average type is unimportant. Those only who stand out in bold relief in the mental and ethical culture of any race or age are truly representative of a civilization. The common lot is incomparably distinct from the high achievement of the Supermen. The majority is in closer touch with the general psychical atmosphere of a race immediately inferior, or a race indefinitely inferior, with which it may come into contact.

Another powerful fact ever to be borne in mind in the consideration of inter-racial amalgamatory influences is the superiority of the physical instincts of the average type in any cultured

civilization and the comparatively less evolution of the mental and ethical qualities. Plainly speaking, the average type is more closely identified with the evolved instincts of the inferior race than with the high-cultured Superman of the respective civilization of which he is a member.

This draws a significant line of demarcation. It is impossible for a high type to be influenced by a low type. It is extremely possible for an average type, and types below the average, to be influenced by the proximity and physio-psychical vibrations of an inferior race. The reader is asked to exercise his judgment and imagination in reference to these hypotheses as analogous and applicable to the negro and the common American type. It is not advisable to be too radical. A suggestion bears enough of the ominous.

All civilization of whatever character and description is based upon the moral element. It is the moral element with its spiritualization of lower instincts that underlies those refined æsthetic ties upon which the family and community relationships of a highly civilized race are founded. On the individual family the State is founded. Another significant fact is that a desirable transmission of evolved hereditary instincts depends upon the maintenance of the moral element. If this be in any way retrogressively influenced, the decay of the race is certain. As previously stated, a low type can never degrade a high type by reason of the latter's specialized nerve and brain centres. Yet there is a method by which highly individualized types may drift to the abnormal through the undermining of the moral sentiment. And this is brought about by indiscriminate association and physical proximity with members of an inferior race. We must remember that a high type labors under extreme nervous tension and excitability. Their sensations are hyper-acute. Certainly, they entertain high moral sentiments; yet there is no particular guarantee for their maintenance if contrary instincts occur in too close relation with highly evolved nerve centres. A high type is either excessively normal or abnormal. History shows us that where men of highly nervous and mental culture succumbed to the tremendous sexual seductiveness of a member of an inferior race, the mentality of those men and those personal psycho-physical