PIRATES AND PRIVATE SECRETARIES It was a little station made gloomy by a single light.

Once in so often a fast train stopped, if properly flagged.

Fitzgerald, feeling wholly unromantic, now that he had arrived, dropped his hand-bag on the damp platform and took his bearings.

It was after sundown.

The sea, but a few yards away, was a murmuring, heaving blackness, save where here and there a wave broke.