With the
clothes he stood up in, a halfpenny in his pocket, and no
single friend or acquaintance to turn to, with no prospect
either of a bed for the night or a meal for the morrow,
Martin Stoner trudged stolidly forward, between moist
hedgerows and beneath dripping trees, his mind almost a
blank, except that he was subconsciously aware that
somewhere in front of him lay the sea. Another
consciousness obtruded itself now and then---the knowledge
that he was miserably hungry. Presently he came to a halt
by an open gateway that led into a spacious and rather
neglected farm-garden; there was little sign of life about,
and the farm-house at the further end of the garden looked
chill and inhospitable. A drizzling rain, however, was
setting in, and Stoner thought that here perhaps he might
obtain a few minutes' shelter and buy a glass of milk with
his last remaining coin. He turned slowly and wearily into
the garden and followed a narrow, flagged path up to a side
door. Before he had time to knock the door opened and a
bent, withered-looking old man stood aside in the doorway as
though to let him pass in.
``Could I come in out of the rain?'' Stoner began, but the
old man interrupted him.
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