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at the forbidden land. One laughed derisively, then burst into a fit of coughing. Others joined him, as if a signal had been given. "They don't want the likes of us," said another voice. "Sure, and they do, and we go to Philadelphia," said still another. "I have heard it, meself, with these ears, from Father."

The door at the end of the deck opened and three seamen appeared with a cart on which steamed bowls of oatmeal and fresh tea, and there were tin plates of hard biscuits and bread. The men and boys rushed eagerly to seize the food but Joseph did not move. Was that his father there, that tall man whose fair hair showed under his workman's cap? Joseph struggled for a moment with the fastening of the porthole, but the iron had corroded and it could not be moved. Ah, yes, it was surely Daniel Armagh there waiting, for the quickening light showed his fine features and Joseph's eyes were keen. Joseph's thin fist beat impotently on the porthole, and he shouted. His cries awakened Scan, who began to whimper, and Joseph pulled him upright in the bunk and forced his face against the porthole. "There!" he cried. "There is Dada, Scan, waiting for us!" Scan wailed. "It's not Dada," he protested. "I want my brekky." Joseph had forgotten. He looked about him anxiously. The cart with its steaming but depleted load was about to pass behind the curtain to the women. Joseph raced after it. "My little brother," he said. "He has not eaten." The seamen, in their dirty and crumpled uniforms, glared at him suspiciously. "You'll not be wanting extra for yourself, then?" one demanded. "There's not enough." "I don't want it for myself," said Joseph. He pointed at Scan who was sitting and crying on the edge of the bunk in his drawers. "My brother. Give him mine, too." A hot bowl was thrust into his hands and a hunk of moldy bread, and he was pushed away. He carried the breakfast to Scan who looked at it and whimpered again. "I don't want it," he wailed, and retched. Joseph's heart clenched in fresh dread. "Scan!" he exclaimed. "You must eat your breakfast or you will be ill, and there is no time." "I want Mum," said Scan and turned away his pretty face. "But first, you must eat," said Joseph with sternness. Was that indeed fever on Scan's thin cheeks? Oh, God, Joseph muttered with hatred between his clenched teeth. He felt Scan's brow. It was cool but sweaty. "Eat," Joseph commanded, and the new note in his voice affrighted his little brother who began to cry again and sniffle. But he accepted the tin bowl and the big spoon and, sobbing, forced the porridge into his mouth. "Good boyeen," said Joseph. He looked at the bread in his hand and hesitated. There was a gaunt hollow in him. But if he sickened, himself, then there would be no help for the other children. He began to chew on the hard bread, and now and then he rose on tiptoe to watch the slow moving of the ship to the wharfs. The man with the fair hair had disappeared. Then there was the rattling of chains, a loud thump, and the broad wooden gangplank was lowered to the wharf. A chorus of voices rose, and disturbed gulls began to wheel in clouds above the ship and against a sky from which the red light had faded and had now become dun and threatening. Joseph could hear the cheeping of the gulls, and from below the movement of cattle. A wet sail fell to the deck. Water muttered and hissed about the hull. The harbor waters were filled with refuse and floating wooden beams, and now the ocean was the color of pewter. In a moment it was pitted by a harsh and driving rain mingled with snow. Joseph shivered, and chewed somberly. This was not the golden land of which his father had written. The streets looked alien and sullen and deserted for all the wagons and the carts and the occasional gleaming umbrella that scuttled along the cobblestones or on the bricked walks. The land was little and low and the skies were immense, and there was only desolation and icy chill and loneliness and abandonment.