Pierce
id quod plerumque accidit
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Pierce
Niall Pierce counted his cases and trunks one more time. All present and accounted for. A relief, that. It was fraught, travelling with so much of his equipment and the undeveloped plates, to say nothing of what had been presumably shipped from New York. Had it all arrived? He hoped so. Having made the decision of returning to England instead of New York, Pierce hadn’t been able to accompany the crates. He also couldn’t help but wonder if he would miss the vitality of that city, despite the teeming, tar-scented melee of the London docks. What the hell was he thinking?
“Care for a light?”
Pierce looked up. There was a man nearby, a sailor, watching the unlit cigarette between Pierce’s fingers. His thoughts having been so occupied, Pierce had forgotten.
“I would at that,” Pierce answered, holding up his cigarette while the man lit a match and patiently protected the flame as it caught hold. “Thank you,” Pierce added, pulling his hand back and taking the first draw.
“Name’s Holt,” the sailor said.
“Pierce.”
They shook hands.
“You from hereabouts?”
The sailor was a bit chatty for his taste, but Pierce could be easy company with most. “English born, but I’ve spent a number of years coming and going from America.”
“A Yank.”
Pierce hesitated. “In part, I suppose.”