Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. Not entirely. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. Another horseman followed quickly at the heels of the first; but just as he passed the spot where Jack stood, his steed missed its footing, and fell. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream.
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