Excerpt from Smith: A Novel Based on the Play by W. Somerset Maugham
The ship came to anchor in the night. With the first light he was standing by the rail gazing at the white cliffs. A barefooted sailor came by with a swab and bucket. "There isn't any mistake about it, is there?" he asked. "It's England?"
"Mistake?" echoed the sailor contemptuously. "'Ow could there be a mistake?" He passed on along the deck and the bronzed, broad-shouldered man in tweeds smiled, turned to the rail again and the grey, misty prospect of Southhampton harbour.
After breakfast, which no one ate, and interminable hours of waiting, the tender finally came off and the sun-browned man stationed by a pile of luggage marked T.F.
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