that ain't a good 'un. Well, I must be getting along, Mist' Alfred," he said, with a tinge of respect in his voice. "Fare you well; but you wait till old Bob gets you," and he shuffled off, murmuring, "Who's old Bob's mawther? Well, if that ain't a good 'un."
Smith continued on his way, his opinion of Alfred's unpopularity confirmed. He reached the village without further incident, apart from the fact that two labourers had saluted and stared at him as if he were an apparition; but he took that merely to indicate the courtesies of the countryside.
Little Bilstead consisted of a spatter of houses and shops lying in a slight fold of the ground, on either side of the main road. It seemed a disappointing place, neither populous, nor picturesque. There were two or three people to be seen; but the general atmosphere was one of intense somnolence.
He walked through the village, past the post-office, and general store, and an insignificant little inn called The Pigeons, from the door of which came the smell of rank tobacco smoke and stale beer, tainting the sweetness of the morning air.
Several people seemed to appear from nowhere, and stood staring at him, just as the evil old man had stared a few minutes previously.
As no one saluted, or made any move to accost him, he walked leisurely on. Continuing along the main road, he strove to evolve something like a definite course of action from the tangle of his thoughts. Wisdom told him that the best thing to do was to leave Alfred Warren and Little Bilstead—the one to his destiny, the other to its dulness. There was something else, however, that bade him see the thing through.
