Monday morning, Joe groaned over the first truck load of clothes to the washer.

"I say," he began.

"Don't talk to me," Martin snarled.

"I'm sorry, Joe," he said at noon, when they knocked off for dinner.

Tears came into the other's eyes.

"That's all right, old man," he said. "We're in hell, an' we can't help ourselves. An', you know, I kind of like you a whole lot. That's what made it - hurt. I cottoned to you from the first."

Martin shook his hand.

"Let's quit," Joe suggested. "Let's chuck it, an' go hoboin'. I ain't never tried it, but it must be dead easy. An' nothin' to do. Just think of it, nothin' to do. I was sick once, typhoid, in the hospital, an' it was beautiful. I wish I'd get sick again."

The week dragged on. The hotel was full, and extra "fancy starch" poured in upon them. They performed prodigies of valor. They fought late each night under the electric lights, bolted their meals, and even got in a half hour's work before breakfast. Martin no longer took his cold baths. Every moment was drive, drive, drive, and Joe was the masterful shepherd of moments, herding them carefully, never losing one, counting them over like a miser counting gold, working on in a frenzy, toil-mad, a feverish machine, aided ably by that other machine that thought of itself as once having been one Martin Eden, a man.

But it was only at rare moments that Martin was able to think. The house of thought was closed, its windows boarded up, and he was its shadowy caretaker. He was a shadow. Joe was right. They were both shadows, and this was the unending limbo of toil. Or was it a dream? Sometimes, in the steaming, sizzling heat, as he swung the heavy irons back and forth over the white garments, it came to him that it was a dream. In a short while, or maybe after a thousand years or so, he would awake, in his little room with the ink- stained table, and take up his writing where he had left off the day before. Or maybe that was a dream, too, and the awakening would be the changing of the watches, when he would drop down out of his bunk in the lurching forecastle and go up on deck, under the tropic stars, and take the wheel and feel the cool tradewind blowing through his flesh.

Came Saturday and its hollow victory at three o'clock.

"Guess I'll go down an' get a glass of beer," Joe said, in the queer, monotonous tones that marked his week-end collapse.

Martin seemed suddenly to wake up. He opened the kit bag and oiled his wheel, putting graphite on the chain and adjusting the bearings. Joe was halfway down to the saloon when Martin passed by, bending low over the handle-bars, his legs driving the ninety- six gear with rhythmic strength, his face set for seventy miles of road and grade and dust. He slept in Oakland that night, and on Sunday covered the seventy miles back. And on Monday morning, weary, he began the new week's work, but he had kept sober.

A fifth week passed, and a sixth, during which he lived and toiled as a machine, with just a spark of something more in him, just a glimmering bit of soul, that compelled him, at each week-end, to scorch off the hundred and forty miles. But this was not rest. It was super-machinelike, and it helped to crush out the glimmering bit of soul that was all that was left him from former life. At the end of the seventh week, without intending it, too weak to resist, he drifted down to the village with Joe and drowned life and found life until Monday morning.

Again, at the week-ends, he ground out the one hundred and forty miles, obliterating the numbness of too great exertion by the numbness of still greater exertion. At the end of three months he went down a third time to the village with Joe. He forgot, and lived again, and, living, he saw, in clear illumination, the beast he was making of himself - not by the drink, but by the work. The drink was an effect, not a cause. It followed inevitably upon the work, as the night follows upon the day. Not by becoming a toil- beast could he win to the heights, was the message the whiskey whispered to him, and he nodded approbation. The whiskey was wise. It told secrets on itself.

He called for paper and pencil, and for drinks all around, and while they drank his very good health, he clung to the bar and scribbled.

"A telegram, Joe," he said. "Read it."

Joe read it with a drunken, quizzical leer. But what he read seemed to sober him. He looked at the other reproachfully, tears oozing into his eyes and down his cheeks.

"You ain't goin' back on me, Mart?" he queried hopelessly.

Martin nodded, and called one of the loungers to him to take the message to the telegraph office.

"Hold on," Joe muttered thickly. "Lemme think."

He held on to the bar, his legs wobbling under him, Martin's arm around him and supporting him, while he thought.

"Make that two laundrymen," he said abruptly. "Here, lemme fix it."

"What are you quitting for?" Martin demanded.

"Same reason as you."

"But I'm going to sea. You can't do that."

"Nope," was the answer, "but I can hobo all right, all right."

Martin looked at him searchingly for a moment, then cried:-

"By God, I think you're right! Better a hobo than a beast of toil. Why, man, you'll live. And that's more than you ever did before."

"I was in hospital, once," Joe corrected. "It was beautiful. Typhoid - did I tell you?"

While Martin changed the telegram to "two laundrymen," Joe went on:-

"I never wanted to drink when I was in hospital. Funny, ain't it? But when I've ben workin' like a slave all week, I just got to bowl up. Ever noticed that cooks drink like hell? - an' bakers, too? It's the work. They've sure got to. Here, lemme pay half of that telegram."

"I'll shake you for it," Martin offered.

"Come on, everybody drink," Joe called, as they rattled the dice and rolled them out on the damp bar.

Monday morning Joe was wild with anticipation. He did not mind his aching head, nor did he take interest in his work. Whole herds of moments stole away and were lost while their careless shepherd gazed out of the window at the sunshine and the trees.

"Just look at it!" he cried. "An' it's all mine! It's free. I can lie down under them trees an' sleep for a thousan' years if I want to. Aw, come on, Mart, let's chuck it. What's the good of waitin' another moment. That's the land of nothin' to do out there, an' I got a ticket for it - an' it ain't no return ticket, b'gosh!"

A few minutes later, filling the truck with soiled clothes for the washer, Joe spied the hotel manager's shirt. He knew its mark, and with a sudden glorious consciousness of freedom he threw it on the floor and stamped on it.

"I wish you was in it, you pig-headed Dutchman!" he shouted. "In it, an' right there where I've got you! Take that! an' that! an' that! damn you! Hold me back, somebody! Hold me back!"

Martin laughed and held him to his work. On Tuesday night the new laundrymen arrived, and the rest of the week was spent breaking them into the routine. Joe sat around and explained his system, but he did no more work.

"Not a tap," he announced. "Not a tap. They can fire me if they want to, but if they do, I'll quit. No more work in mine, thank you kindly. Me for the freight cars an' the shade under the trees. Go to it, you slaves! That's right. Slave an' sweat! Slave an' sweat! An' when you're dead, you'll rot the same as me, an' what's it matter how you live? - eh? Tell me that - what's it matter in the long run?"

On Saturday they drew their pay and came to the parting of the ways.

"They ain't no use in me askin' you to change your mind an' hit the road with me?" Joe asked hopelessly:

Martin shook his head. He was standing by his wheel, ready to start. They shook hands, and Joe held on to his for a moment, as he said:-

"I'm goin' to see you again, Mart, before you an' me die. That's straight dope. I feel it in my bones. Good-by, Mart, an' be good. I like you like hell, you know."

He stood, a forlorn figure, in the middle of the road, watching until Martin turned a bend and was gone from sight.

"He's a good Indian, that boy," he muttered. "A good Indian."

Then he plodded down the road himself, to the water tank, where half a dozen empties lay on a side-track waiting for the up freight.

星期一早晨第一小车衣物送到了洗衣房，乔唉声叹气。

“我说，”他开始说。

“别跟我说话，”马丁喝道。

“对不起，乔，”中午马丁说，两人下了班，正要去吃饭。

对方眼里涌出了泪水。

“没有啥，老兄，”他说，“我们是在地狱里，无可奈何。你知道，我好像十分喜欢你呢，我难过正因为这个。我一开头就挺喜欢你的。”

马丁抓住他的手摇了摇。

“咱们不干了吧，”乔建议，“丢下活儿当流浪汉去。我没有试过，可那难是最容易不过的，什么事都不用干。我生过一回病，伤寒，住在医院里，美妙极了，我真想再生一回病呢。”

那一星期过得很慢。旅馆客满，额外的“花式浆洗”不断送来。他们创造了英勇奋战的奇迹。每天晚上都在电灯光下苦干，吃饭狼吞虎咽，甚至在早饭前也加班半小时。马丁再也不洗冷水浴了，每时每刻都在赶、赶、赶。乔是个精明的羊倌，他牧放的是时间。他细心地赶着每时每刻，不让它们跑掉；像守财奴数金币一样反复计算着。他疯狂地计算着，计算得发了疯，成了一部发高烧的机器。还有一部机器也跟他配合。那部机器认为自己以前曾经叫马丁·伊登，原是个人。

马丁能思考的时刻已很罕见。他那思维的居室早已关闭，连窗户都打上了木板，而他已沦为那居室的幽灵一样的看守者。他是个幽灵，乔说得对。他们俩都是幽灵，而这里便是只有无穷无尽苦役的好久地狱，或者，这不过是个梦？有时，当他在雾气腾腾热得冒泡的环境里来回地挥舞着沉重的熨斗，熨烫着衣物时，他真觉得是个梦。一会儿之后，或是一千年之后，是会醒过来的。那时他仍会在他的小屋子里，在他那墨迹斑斑的桌子边，接着昨天停下的地方写小说。或者，连那也是一个梦，醒过来已是换班的时候，他得从颠簸的水手舱铺位上翻下来，爬到热带星空下的甲板上去，去掌舵，让凉爽的贸易风吹透他的肌肤。

星期六下午三点，空虚的胜利终于到来。

“我看我还是下去喝一杯啤酒吧，”乔说，口气古怪、单调，说明到周末他已经累垮了。

马丁似乎突然惊醒过来。他打开工具箱，给自行车上好油，给链条抹了石墨，调整好轴承，在乔去酒店的中途赶上了他。马丁低身伏在车把上，两腿有节奏地使劲蹬着九十六齿的齿轮，绷紧了脸准备面对七十英里的大道、坡路和灰尘。那天晚上他在奥克兰睡觉，星期天又骑完七十英里回来。星期一的早上他疲倦地开始了新一周的工作，但没有喝酒。

第五周过去，然后是第六周。这两周里他像个机器一样活着，服着苦役，心里只多余出一点点火星——那是灵魂的一丝微光，是那点光驱使他每周赶完那一百四十英里路。但这不是休息，而像是一部超级机器在干活儿，只帮助扑灭着灵魂的那点激光——那已是往日生活的仅有的残余。第七周周末他不知不觉已跟乔一起走上了去村子的路。在那儿他用酒淹没了生命，直到星期一早上才转世还魂。

到了周末他又去蹬那一百四十英里。为了消除太辛苦的劳动带来的麻木，他用了更辛苦的劳动带来的麻木。第三个月末他跟乔第三次下到村里，在那儿他沉入了遗忘，再活了过来。那时他清清楚楚看见他在把自己变成什么样的畜生——不是用酒，而是用干活。酒不是原因，而是结果。酒无可避免地紧随着苦活儿，正如黑夜紧随着白天。威士忌向他耳语的信息是：变作做苦工的畜生不能使他攀登到高处。他点头表示赞同。威士忌很聪明，他泄露有关自己的机密。

他要了纸和铅笔，还要了酒请每个人喝。别人为他的健康平杯时他靠着柜台潦草地写着。

“一份电报，乔，”他说，“读吧。”

乔怀疑他醉醇醇地瞄了瞄电报。那电又似乎让他清醒了过来。他带着责备的神情望着对方，泪水从眼里渗出，沿着面颊流下。

“你不是要扔掉我吧，马？”他绝望地问。

马丁点点头，叫了个闲逛的人把电报送到电报房去。

“等一等，”乔口齿不清地说，“让我想想。”

他扶着柜台，双腿摇晃，马丁用胳膊搂住地，扶住他，让他想。

“把它改成送两个洗衣工来好了。”他突然说，“喏，我来改。”

“你为什么辞职？”马丁问。

“理由跟你一样。”

“可我是要去出海呢，而你不能。”

“不能，”回答是，“可我能当好个流浪汉，能当好的。”

马丁打量了他一会儿、叫道：——

“上帝呀，我看你做得对！与其当干活的畜生不如当流浪汉。不错，老兄，你能生活的。比以前的生活还要好！”

“我住过一回医院，”乔纠正他，“生活得很美妙的，伤寒——我告诉过你么？”

马丁把电报改为两个“洗衣工”时乔接着说：——

“我住院的时候从来不想喝酒，很有趣，是吧？但像奴隶一样干上一周活儿，就非喝不可了。你见过厨房工人醉得一塌糊涂的么？——面包师傅有么？全都是干活儿逼的。非喝上酒不可。来，电报费我付一半。”

“咱俩掷骰子决定，”马丁提议。

“来吧，大家都喝，”乔叫道。两人哗哗地摇着骰子，掷在水汪汪的柜台上。

星期一早上乔盼望得发了狂。他不在乎头疼，也不在乎于活了。那心不在焉的牧羊人望着窗外的阳光和树林，让他时间的羊儿一群一群地逃散了。

“你看看外边！”他叫道，“那全是我的！全免费！我只要愿意，可以在那些树下睡上一千年。啊，来吧，马，咱俩不干了。再拖下去有什么意思。外面就是不用干活的土地。我有去那儿的票呢——而且不是来回票，他娘的！”

几分钟以后，在往小车里装脏衣服准备送到洗衣机去时，乔发现了旅馆老板的衬衫。他记得上面的记号，于是怀着突然获得自由的光辉之感，他把那衬衫往地上一扔便踩了上去。

“你这个荷兰老顽固，我真恨不得你就在你的衬衫里！”他大叫，“就在里头，在我踩着你的地点！挨我一脚！再来一脚！再来一脚！快来扶住我呀！扶住我！”

马丁哈哈大笑，急忙扶他去工作。星期二晚上新洗衣工到达。后来的几天就在培养他们学习那套例行工作中过去。乔坐在旁边解释他的干活系统，却不再干活了。

“碰都不想碰一下，”他宣布，“碰都不想碰。他们要是高兴，可以炒我鱿鱼。他一炒我就走。我没有劲干活了。我千恩万谢。我要去搭黄鱼车，要到树下去睡觉。干活吧，奴隶们！没有错，做奴隶流大汗去！做奴隶流大汗去！死了以后也跟我一样腐烂。那跟你生前怎么过活有什么关系？——呃？告诉我——归根到底又有什么关系？”

星期六两人领了工资来到分手的地点。

“我若是劝你改变主意跟我一起去流浪，怕是没有用吧？”乔不抱希望地问。

马丁摇摇头。他站在自行车旁正准备出发。两人握了手，乔往前走了几步，说道：——

“在咱俩死去之前，马，我还会跟你见面的。说真话，我从骨髓里感觉到这一点。再见，马，祝你好运。我真他妈太喜欢你了，你知道。”

他站在大路正中，一副孤苦伶仃的模样，望着马丁拐了一道弯，消失了。“他的车骑得真快呀，那小伙子，”他结结巴巴地说，“骑得真快。”

然后他便沿着大路蹒跚走去，来到水塔旁边。那儿有六七个空车皮停在一条支线上，等着北上的货车送来货载。