The Man Who Died I returned from the City about three o'clock on that May afternoon pretty well disgusted with life.

I had been three months in the Old Country, and was fed up with it.

If anyone had told me a year ago that I would have been feeling like that I should have laughed at him; but there was the fact.

The weather made me liverish, the talk of the ordinary Englishman made me sick, I couldn't get enough exercise, and the amusements of London seemed as flat as soda-water that has been standing in the sun.

'Richard Hannay,' I kept telling myself, 'you have got into the wrong ditch, my friend, and you had better climb out.' It made me bite my lips to think of the plans I had been building up those last years in Bulawayo.