The disconsolate one, mean-time, was supping like a wolf. He
gulped at his porridge with quick snaps, tore his bread with his teeth.
Senhouse gave him time, quietly eating his own supper, watching the red
gleam die down in the poor wretch's eyes. Being himself a spare feeder, he
was soon done, and at further business of hospitality. He set a great
pipkin of water to heat, brought out a clean robe of white wool, a jelab
like his own, and made some tea.
The stranger, then, being filled, cleansed and in warm raiment, stretched
himself before the fire, and broke silence. He was still surly, but the
grudge was not audible in his voice. "I took your fire for a gypsy camp,
and was glad enough of it. I've come by the hills from Winterslow since
dusk. You were right, though: I was done. I couldn't have dragged another
furlong."
Senhouse nodded. "I thought not. Been long on the road?"
"Two months."
"From the North, I think? From Yorkshire?"
The stranger grunted his replies. His host judged that he had reasons for
his reticence. There was a pause.
"You sup late," was then observed.
Senhouse replied, "I generally do. I take two meals a day--the first at
noon, the second at midnight; but I believe that I could do without one of
them.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221