The idea came to Big Chris, as he stood on the beach gazing out through the narrow, darkened harbor mouth into the night and the storm, that this world of his was an outcast world, a land that God had cursed and forsaken, a pariah land outlawed from the kindly, sun-kissed world where the races moved and teemed. Because it was his home, because its grim, strange spirit of desolation and death had long ago got hold of him, it was as if he were a pariah too, God-cursed and God-forsaken, scarcely less so than the Remittance Man, with whom he had just become acquainted and who now lay in a drunken stupor in one of the tumble-down shacks in the darkened native village behind him; that because this…
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