One afternoon there landed from an American liner, at a Liverpool wharf¹, a tall, bony, haggard-looking man, roughly and shabbily dressed, with a long, tangled², grey beard, and dark, wide-open, wistful eyes; he had lost his left arm. He had been a steerage passenger of the poorest class, and had been moody³ and silent on the voyage, giving no offence, but making no friends or acquaintances, and saying nothing of whence he came or of whither he was bound; others talked of the little village they were going to return to, of the old parents who were longing⁴ to welcome them, of the graves left behind them or the health and youth lost for ever, of their cheated hopes and broken fortunes or their modest gains and longed-for rest; but he said nothing whatever; he had interested no one as he had offended no one; no one noticed or cared where he went when he landed.

 

He did not stop to eat or drink, but took his third-class ticket for London, and when that was paid had only two dollars remaining in his pocket as his share of the goods of this earth.

 

He was wedged up between rough navvies in an overfilled compartment⁵, and had a slow, tedious, uncomfortable journey in the parliamentary train. But he did not heed⁶ these minor⁷ troubles; his mind was engrossed⁸ in one overwhelming, all-engrossing thought which sat on his breast and gnawed⁹ at his vitals like a vampire¹⁰.

 

“I guess I’ll find him soon, even in that great city, if he’s as big a man as they say,” he muttered to himself as he got out of the train and passed into the mirk and noise and hurry of the London streets.

分享到：