Wyndham's Pal by Harold Bindloss — Read

Dusk had fallen and rows of lights twinkled along the walls at the river-mouth. Tall chimneys and warehouses rose against the sky, there was a biting wind, and Marston shivered at the door of the liner's smoking-room. Her engines throbbed slackly as she steamed in with the tide, past the dark shapes of anchored vessels. A mile or two ahead, bright streaks, in which the separate lights were merged, marked the landing stages, and Marston looked for the red, white, and green triangle that would indicate the company's tug. For his comrade's sake, he was illogically relieved because he could not see her yet, although the moment he dreaded could not be put off long.

After a time, he went back into the smoking room. Wyndham, wearing a heavy coat, lounged on a settee. He was very thin and his face was haggard, but this was not all. His mouth was distorted, for one side drooped, giving him a strange look of vacant amusement. The contrast between this and the melancholy in his eyes was rather horrible. Marston was getting used to the disfigurement, but he had seen that strangers were jarred. Besides, Wyndham would never again articulate clearly. His talk was slow and awkward, and the Kingston doctor doubted if he would altogether get back his strength.