“Well,” I said laughing in deprecation. “I don’t mind your dreaming. But this is not the way to anywhere.”
“Where may you be going then?” he asked.
“I? Home,” I replied with dignity.
“You are a Beardsall?” he queried, eyeing me with bloodshot eyes.
“I am!” I replied with more dignity, wondering who the fellow could be.
He sat a few moments looking at me. It was getting dark in the wood. Then he took up an ebony stick with a gold head, and rose. The stick seemed to catch at my imagination. I watched it curiously as we walked with the old man along the path to the gate. We went with him into the open road. When we reached the clear sky where the light from the west fell full on our faces, he turned again and looked at us closely. His mouth opened sharply, as if he would speak, but he stopped himself, and only said “Good-bye—Good-bye.”
“Shall you be all right?” I asked, seeing him totter.
“Yes—all right—good-bye, lad.”
He walked away feebly into the darkness. We saw the lights of a vehicle on the high-road: after a while we heard the bang of a door, and a cab rattled away.
“Well—whoever’s he?” said George laughing.
“Do you know,” said I, “it’s made me feel a bit rotten.”
“Ay?” he laughed, turning up the end of the exclamation with indulgent surprise.
We went back home, deciding to say nothing to
