up to London in the Zulu express. A large Fair Trade meeting had been held at Plymouth the night before, and three farmers in the compartment with me were discussing that morning's leader in the _Western Daily Mercury_. One of them had already been goaded into violent speech when we halted at Newton Abbot and another passenger stepped in--a little old man in a suit of black.
I recognised him at once. And yet he was changed woefully. He had fallen away in flesh; the lines had deepened beside his upper lip; and in spite of a glossier suit he had an appearance of hopelessness which he had not worn when I saw him for the first time.
He took his seat, looked about him vacantly and caught the eye of the angry farmer, who nodded, broke off his speech in the middle of a sentence, and asked in a curiously gentle voice--
"Travellin' up to Exeter?"
The old man bent his head for "yes," and I saw the tears well up in his weak eyes.
"There's no need vur to ax your arrand." The farmer here dropped his tone almost to a whisper.
