He entered strange ports of sun-washed lands, and trod market-places among barbaric peoples that no man had ever seen.

The scent of the spice islands was in his nostrils as he had known it on warm, breathless nights at sea, or he beat up against the southeast trades through long tropic days, sinking palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea behind and lifting palm-tufted coral islets in the turquoise sea ahead.

Swift as thought the pictures came and went.

One instant he was astride a broncho and flying through the fairy-colored Painted Desert country; the next instant he was gazing down through shimmering heat into the whited sepulchre of Death Valley, or pulling an oar on a freezing ocean where great ice islands towered and glistened in the sun.

He lay on a coral beach where the cocoanuts grew down to the mellow-sounding surf.