Part II

           AfewweekslaterIwasoutoneevening.OncemoreIhadsatoutinachurchyardandworkedatanarticleforoneofthenewspapers.ButwhilstIwasstrugglingwithiteighto’clockstruck,anddarknessclosedin,andtimeforshuttingthegates.

           Iwashungry—veryhungry.Thetenshillingshad,worseluck,lastedalltooshort.Itwasnowtwo,ay,nearlythreedayssinceIhadeatenanything,andIfeltsomewhatfaint;holdingthepencilevenhadtaxedmealittle.Ihadhalfapenknifeandabunchofkeysinmypocket,butnotafarthing.

           WhenthechurchyardgateshutImeanttohavegonestraighthome,but,fromaninstinctivedreadofmyroom—avacanttinker’sworkshop,whereallwasdarkandbarren,andwhich,infact,Ihadgotpermissiontooccupyforthepresent—Istumbledon,passed,notcaringwhereIwent,theTownHall,righttothesea,andovertoaseatneartherailwaybridge.

           Atthismomentnotasadthoughttroubledme.Iforgotmydistress,andfeltcalmedbytheviewofthesea,whichlaypeacefulandlovelyinthemurkiness.Foroldhabit’ssakeIwouldpleasemyselfbyreadingthroughthebitIhadjustwritten,andwhichseemedtomysufferingheadthebestthingIhadeverdone.

           Itookmymanuscriptoutofmypockettotryanddecipherit,helditcloseuptomyeyes,andranthroughit,onelineaftertheother.AtlastIgottired,andputthepapersbackinmypocket.Everythingwasstill.