E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Melissa Er-Raqabi,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
It was always a matter of wonder to Vandover that he was able to recallso little of his past life. With the exception of the most recent eventshe could remember nothing connectedly. What he at first imagined to bethe story of his life, on closer inspection turned out to be but a fewdisconnected incidents that his memory had preserved with the greatestcapriciousness, absolutely independent of their importance. One of theseincidents might be a great sorrow, a tragedy, a death in his family; andanother, recalled with the same vividness, the same accuracy of detail,might be a matter of the least moment.
A certain one of these wilful fillips of memory would always bringbefore him a particular scene during the migration of his family fromBoston to their new home in San Francisco, at a time when Vandover wasabout eight years old.
It was in the depot of one of the larger towns in western New York. Theday had been hot and after the long ride on the crowded day coach thecool shadow under the curved roof of the immense iron vaulted depotseemed very pleasant. The porter, the brakeman and Vandover's fathervery carefully lifted his mother from the car. She was lying back onpillows in a long steamer chair. The three men let the chair slowlydown, the brakeman went away, but the porter remained, taking off hiscap and wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand, which inturn he wiped against the pink palm of his right. The other train, thetrain to which they were to change, had not yet arrived. It was ratherstill; at the far end of the depot a locomotive, sitting back on itsmotionless drivers like some huge sphinx crouching along the rails, wassteaming quietly, drawing long breaths. The repair gang in greasy capsand spotted blue overalls were inspecting the train, pottering about thetrucks, opening and closing the journal-boxes, striking clear notes onthe wheels with long-handled hammers.
Vandover stood close to his father, his thin legs wide apart, holding inboth his hand