And this, in a way, is Winkelburg’s revenge, that I am unable to forget him and that I am unable to say “poor Winkelburg” without Winkelburg smiling back at me and saying with a taunting, irritating calm, “Yes, yes, he is better off dead.” [14] Copyright, 1922, by Smart Set Company, Inc. Copyright, 1923, by Ben Hecht. THE TOKEN[15] By JOSEPH HERGESHEIMER (From _The Saturday Evening Post_) What Epes Calef principally thought, walking sharply away from his discharged responsibility at the Custom House, through the thin icy light of late afternoon, was that he was glad that was finally done with. It was, he assured himself again, with articulating lips. The next time he went to sea, to the East, to Patagonia and Canton and the Falklands, or lay in the Macao Roads with the Brahminy kites perched high on the rigging, he would be first mate, perhaps even master, of the _Triton_, and no longer a mere supercargo. No words could adequately express how much he hated that position of barterer. Very privately--in view of his father’s special characteristic--he hadn’t considered it at all a necessary part of his training for the commanding of Calef ships; others of his acquaintance, making like him toward such a superlative destiny, had worked their way progressively aft with no pause over kegs of Spanish dollars and the ridiculous merchants of Co-Hongs and countinghouses. They had always, from the first, been seamen, while he-- But he need bother no longer, his seemingly endless wearisome apprenticeship, the tiresome dickering, was over; and in the coming spring, before the lilacs had bloomed in Salem, he would personally, individually, order the last fast holding the _Triton_ to earth cast off. He swore a little, in a manner at once of the sea and of vainglorious youth. Epes Calef was not yet twenty, and his breath congealed in a sparkling mist. He was, he reminded himself with a lifting pleasure, home; the _Triton_ had docked at noon, but he had been so busy with the infernal accounts and manifest, the wharfinger and harbor master, that he had hardly dwelt upon his safe and happy return. Neither, he suddenly realized, had he yet seen any member of his family; even Snelling Pingre, their head clerk, had been able only to wave briefly from a distance. His, Epes’, father was more often than not at Derby Wharf on the return of one of his ships; either Ira Calef, or Bartlett, the elder son. Now Bartlett, his thoughts ran on, had always been splendidly suited to his appointed activity--an application to the purely financial side of the Calefs’ wide trading voyages.