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 admixture of youth and age gave me an eerie feeling.
'Yes,' I replied, 'this is Plymouth. At least, this is Plymouth
Harbour.'
He turned toward the vessel, and looked at it for some seconds, and then heaved a sigh.
'Have you friends on board?' I asked.
'Oh, no,' he replied. 'I have just left it. I thought I remembered
Plymouth, and so I got off.'
'Where have you come from?'
'From India.'
'Where did you come from?'