“Yes,” said David, adding, as if in some sort of justification: “I was born here in Middleboro.”
The man who had occupied the upper berth looked aside reflectively, taking in and appraising the country-town tritenesses as the open car windows passed them in review.
“A man may be born anywhere,” he remarked; then, with the appraisive glance directed at the fair-haired, frank-faced young man kneeling to strap an over-filled suit case; “It’s a safe bet that you’ll not die in Middleboro—unless you should chance to be killed in an accident.”
Vallory, soberly preoccupied, looked up from the strapping.
“Why do you say that?”
The older man smiled with a rather grim widening of the thin lips half hidden by a cropped beard and mustaches.
“You are young, and youth is always impatient of the little horizons. Let me make another guess. You have been away for some time, and this is your first return. You are finding it a bit disappointing. Am I right?”
“Not exactly disappointing,” Vallory denied.
“Well, then, different, let us say. You may not realize it yet, but you have outgrown the home town. I know, because, years ago, I had precisely the same experience myself. Do your people live here?”
The train had been halted in the yard by a dropped semaphore arm, and for the moment Vallory was at the mercy of his chance traveling companion. Yet he told himself that there was no good reason why he should be churlish.