But he did not stoop
his shoulders: he bent his straight back from the hips.
Now and again short, stump, thick-legged figures of Cornish miners passed
him, and he invariably gave them goodnight, as if to insist that he was
on his own ground. He spoke with the west-Cornish intonation. And as he
went along the dreary road, looking now at the lights of the dwellings on
land, now at the lights away to sea, vessels veering round in sight of
the Longships Lighthouse, the whole of the Atlantic Ocean in darkness and
space between him and America, he seemed a little excited and pleased
with himself, watchful, thrilled, veering along in a sense of mastery
and of power in conflict.
The houses began to close on the road, he was entering the straggling,
formless, desolate mining village, that he knew of old. On the left was a
little space set back from the road, and cosy lights of an inn. There it
was. He peered up at the sign: 'The Tinners' Rest'. But he could not make
out the name of the proprietor. He listened. There was excited talking
and laughing, a woman's voice laughing shrilly among the men's.
Stooping a little, he entered the warmly-lit bar. The lamp was burning, a
buxom woman rose from the white-scrubbed deal table where the black and
white and red cards were scattered, and several men, miners, lifted their
faces from the game.
The stranger went to the counter, averting his face.
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