To escape these attentions Mr. Wriford learnt to simulate absorption in one of the out-of-date illustrated weekly papers with which for its intellectual benefit the ward was supplied. No thought that these papers were once a part of his daily life, himself a very active factor in theirs, ever stirred him as he turned the pages or gazed with unseeing eyes upon them. His fingers turned the pages: his mind, in search of Was there some secret of happiness he had missed? revolved the leaves of retrospection that might disclose it—but never did. His head would bend intensely above a picture or a column of letterpress: his eyes, not what was printed saw, but saw himself as he had been, somehow missing—what?
Seclusion by this means for his searching after his problem brought him one day to an occurrence that did actually concentrate his attention on the printed page before his eyes—a page of illustrated matter that concerned himself. A new batch of weekly periodicals had been placed in the ward—dated some two months back. He took one from the batch, opened it at random, and seated himself, with eyes fixed listlessly upon it, as far as might be from the gossiping groups gathered about the fires at each end of the ward. Absorbed more deeply than usual in his thoughts, he carelessly allowed it to be apparent that the journal was not holding his attention. It lay upon his knee. His eyes wandered from its direction.
"Matey," said the oldest sea-captain living, suddenly springing upon him, "Matey, I got me portograph in the Daily Mirror paper. You ain't never 'ad a fair look at it, Matey."
"Not now," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm reading."
He took up the paper that had rested on his knees; but the oldest sea-captain living placed upon it his cherished cutting from the Daily Mirror paper. "Well, read that, Matey," said the oldest sea-captain living. "That's better than any bit you've got there. Look, Matey. Look what it says." He indicated with a trembling finger the smudged and thumbed lettering beneath the smudged picture and read aloud: "'One of the most remarkable men to be found in our workusses—those re—those rep—those reposetteries of strange 'uman flotsam—-is Cap'n Henery Peters, the oldest sea-captain living.' That's me, Matey. See my face? 'Cap'n Henery—'"
"Yes," said Mr. Wriford. "Yes. That's fine," and took up the cutting and handed it back.
"You ain't finished reading of it," protested the oldest sea-captain living.
"I have. I read quicker than you. I'll read it again in a minute. I just want to finish this. I'm in the middle of it."
The oldest sea-captain living protested anew. "You wasn't reading when I come up to you. I saw you wasn't."
"I was thinking. I'd just stopped to think."