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. The wind was chill, and there was the
hint of a storm coming down from the northeast.

"Any hotel in this place?" he asked of the ticket agent, the telegraph
operator, and the baggageman, who was pushing a crate of vegetables off
a truck.

"Swan's Hotel; only one."

"Do people sleep and eat there?"

"If they have good digestions."

"Much obliged."

"Whisky's no good, either."

"Thanks again. This doesn't look much like a summer resort."

"Nobody ever said it was. I beg your pardon, but would you mind taking
an end of this darned crate?"

"Not at all." Fitzgerald was beginning to enjoy himself. "Where do
you want it?"