Excerpt from How Tyson Came Home: A Story of England and America

Tyson was going home. Not until he had reached middle-age, as he regarded that variable period - he was thirty - had the chance come to him. Years earlier he had landed in the States, a boy, friend less and penniless, but hopeful, with a head full of dreams, and plenty of room in a small oldfashioned carpet-bag for all his material belongings. He could darn his own socks in those days, and apply, not without skill, a patch, when needed, to the rough tweeds that were consecrated to "Sunday bests" and holidays, or to the corduroys and as sorted things that served him for week-days.

Now he was going home, and the smile which flickered across his face had its source in a gratified though almost incredulous recognition of the amazing change that had taken place in his fortunes since that far-off time when, disembarking from the steamer in New York, he had made his way to Chicago.

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