Explore "The Man from the Clouds" by J. Storer Clouston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
After lunch I set out by myself with pretty high hopes. It seemed to me inconceivable that men (or even one man for the sake of argument, though I felt sure there must be more), who were lurking here on the business this gang were engaged upon, would actually take no steps one way or the other to deal with a stranger who knew of their existence, and who to all seeming was one of their own kidney. I flattered myself by this time that every report they could have heard and every observation they might have made must incline them to the view that it was their duty to get in touch with me again. And now I proposed to take a solitary ramble along the very shore where I had stumbled upon my oilskinned friend, and give them a chance of getting in touch.
It was an afternoon of sunshine and gleaming seas. At first the air was redolent of clover, and then -- as I drew near the shore -- of seaware. On this day of rest there was hardly anyone to be seen about, so that a quiet meeting by the beach could be simply arranged. Only a meeting implies two, and though I walked right along the coast till I got within a stone's throw of the Scollays' farm I remained as solitary as when I started.