"I should have thought," I remarked, "that you would have made your home there rather than here."
"There's some who do," he said. "Lots of the Anchor Line men do. But personally I'd rather be here."
"It is very like England," I agreed, as he broke in.
"Sure," he said. "I was just thinking as I came up the hill. I come from Hertfordshire myself. Very like the Northern Heights."
"We always think," I answered, "that it is like Essex."
He pondered for a moment, enjoying his pipe.
"Well, it is," he decided. "You mean looking over Staten Island to the sea? Yes, only they're busier here than along Mersea Flats, eh? Oh yes, I used to know that part when I was a boy. There isn't much between Chipping Barnet and Hamford Water that I didn't know in those days."
"You will go back some day?" I said as we turned. A change came over his face, and he put his hand to his chin.
"No," he said. "I'll never go back there. I'm here"—he waved his pipe—"for keeps."
I looked at him in astonishment.