A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
that he scarcely noticed when, after leaving one of the small stations along the route, someone took the other half of his seat. Nelson merely drew into himself a bit more, kicked his bag a little further toward the window and went on being mournful. He didn't see that the newcomer observed him more than once with kindly interest and seemed inclined to open a conversation. He was a man of apparently fifty years, with a pair of very deep blue eyes behind shell-rimmed glasses, a closely-cropped gray mustache and a sun-tanned face. He sat very erect in his seat, a light overcoat, carefully folded, laid across the knees of his immaculate steel-gray trousers, and at intervals ran his gaze over a Boston morning paper which, however, failed to hold his attention for long at a time. It was he who finally commenced the conversation.
"Transferring?" he inquired.
Nelson looked around rather blankly. "Sir?"
The man smiled. "I asked if you were transferring. I see you have your bag with you."
"No, sir, I'm rejoining my boat at Buzzard's Bay."
The other nodded, darting a swift glance at the boy's cap ribbon. "Wanderer, eh? Patrol boat?"
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