In no time at all, he’s found a pair of fine, blue, homespun pants, almost brand-new, just the right length. A bit too big around the waist, but this is easily solved by tightening his belt. He’s made a bargain for a striped sweater, not exactly what he was looking for but a good thing to have on hand. It’s made from the best-quality Scottish wool, as the Jewish shopkeeper has been telling him, repeatedly. “I know how to look with my own eyes, don’t worry, I wasn’t born yesterday. Yes, your sweater is made from Scottish wool, but . . . do you really want to know? All right then: The sailor who brought it in and sold it to you had just come back from the Indies. Here, take ahold of it and give it a sniff. This particular article has drifted around Benares for a century’s worth of Sundays. So don’t try to put one over on me.”

It is true that, except for his bare head, Herman is still dressed like a gentleman. So you can’t blame the old man for trying to swindle him. “I’m in the navy myself, you understand, you old rabbit. I’ll give you half a shilling for it.” And so he has it for the half shilling. “Don’t fret, you’ll get your chance to earn a living yet.” And then he purchases, this time without hesitation, a splendid old pea coat: roomy, cozy, genuine, worn by rain, wind, and work, the color of night at sea, something worthy of veneration. A true shelter from the storm, a real “sailor’s house.”

“Say, then, you wouldn’t happen to have any shoes? If you do, I’ll get changed right away.” Yes, the old man has piles of them. “Boots? No. No boots along with these pants, you dear old diddler. Do you want people to take me for a green-horn then, as if I didn’t know which end is up? No, I’ll tell you now what I need to go along with these pants. I need something supple. Do you know what they’re meant for, these pants? Well, right then, you put these on after you’ve left Sumatra, when you’re beating back up the China coasts, when the weather’s fine and dry, even if it’s on the chilly side, and the wind’s full of yellow dust. They’re made to be worn with bare feet. So, no question about it: no boots.”

His heart was swelling again. Big, ferocious wings were starting to fan him furiously, despite the walls of the narrow shop. The old shopkeeper didn’t look very much concerned about the big wings. Yes, he had exactly what was required. And so, since the gentleman had just been speaking of China, it was simply a matter of searching through the pile of shoes to find the very thing he was talking about, with respect to being supple, to being Chinese . . . just a matter of looking through the whole kit and caboodle . . . you’ll see what I’m going to dig up for you in here. I know they’re in here, I haven’t sold them. Ah, here they are! Besides, who else could I have sold them to?