Synopsis

My first meeting with the man whose story I have set out to relate was in Plymouth. I had been standing in the harbour, hoping that the friends I had come to meet might yet appear, even although the chances of their doing so had become very small. Perhaps a hundred engers had landed at the historic quay, and practically all of them had rushed away to catch the London train. I had scrutinized each face eagerly, but when the last enger had crossed the gangway I had been reluctantly compelled to assume that my friends, for some reason or other, had not come. I was about to turn away, and go back to the town, when some one touched my arm. 'This is Plymouth, isn't it?' I turned, and saw a young man. At that time I was not sure he was young; he might have been twenty-eight, or he might have been forty-eight. His face was marked by a thousand lines, while a look suggestive of age was in his eyes. He spoke to me in an apologetic sort of way, and looked at me wistfully. I did not answer him for a second, as his appearance startled me. The strange ixture of youth and age gave me an eerie feeling. 'Yes,' I replied, 'this is Plymouth. At least, this is Plymouth Harbour.'