see.'

The shape rose, and, leaning on its oar, gazed at the camp and its
owner in silence. It seemed to be an old man, thin and bent, with bare
arms, and a yellow handkerchief bound around its head, drawn down
almost to the eyebrows, which, singularly bushy and prominent, shaded
the deep-set eyes, and hid their expression.

'But supposing he won't, don't stifle yourself,' continued Waring; then
aloud, 'Well, old gentleman, where do you come from?'

'Nowhere.'

'And where are you going?'

'Back there.'

'Couldn't you take me with you? I have been trying all my life to go
nowhere, but never could learn the way: do what I would, I always
found myself going in the opposite direction, namely, somewhere.'

To this the shape replied nothing, but gazed on.

'Do the nobodies reside in Nowhere, I wonder,' pursued the smoker;
'because if they do, I am afraid I shall meet all my friends and
relatives. What a pity the somebodies could not reside there! But
perhaps they do; cynics would say so.'

But at this stage the shape waved its oar impatiently and demanded,
'Who are you?'