not keep out the draught. The worst room in the worst inn is preferable to a night’s lodging in the grandest of forests.
But, though he had never been in the Warden Forest before, the young man knew it would be midsummer madness to hope for an inn and was wandering along on the chance of coming across some woodman’s hut, or by meeting a stray human being of whom he could inquire his way.
He was tired—he had been walking since morning, and he was hungry and athirst, but he tramped on, and smoked and sang as carelessly as if he were strolling down the shady side of Pall Mall.
Slowly the sun set, and the glades, which had been dusky an hour ago, grew dark. The faint footpath grew still more indistinct, the undergrowth denser and more difficult for persons walking.
The pedestrian fought on for some time, but at last, as he stumbled over one of the gnarled roots which a grand chestnut had thrust up through the ground, he stopped and, looking round, shook his head.
“A regular babe in the wood, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “I shall have to make a night of it, I expect. Wonder whether the robins will be good enough to cover me over in the proper nursery-book style? Is it any good halloing, I wonder? I tried that an hour ago, much to the disgust of the live animals; and I don’t think I can kick up a row at this time of night. Let’s see how the ’bacca goes. Hem! about three—perhaps four pipes. I wish I had something to eat and drink; what a fool I was to leave that piece of steak at breakfast. Steak! I mustn’t think of it—that way madness lies. Well, this looks about as sheltered a spot as I could find—I’ll turn in. I wonder if anybody has, ever since the world began, hit upon a short cut? I never have, and hang me if I’ll try it again. By George! the grass is wet already. Such a likely place for snakes—find my pocket full when I wake, no doubt.”
Then, with a laugh, he dropped down amongst the long brake; but the idea of going to bed in a forest, at the early hour of nine, was too much for him, and instead of composing himself to rheumatic slumber, he began to sing:
“Oh, wake and call me early, mother,
Call me early, mother, dear.”
Scarcely had he finished the line when there came through the darkness, as if in response, a short, sharp bark of a dog.
The wanderer leapt to his feet as if something had bitten him, and after listening intently for a moment, exclaimed:
“Another chance, by Jove!” and sent up a shout that, ringing through the stillness, echoed from tree to tree, and at last called forth the answering bark from the distant dog.
Knocking out his pipe as he ran, he made his way as best he could toward the sound, shouting occasionally and listening warily to the dog’s response.
At last, after many a stumble, he found himself in a narrow glade, at the end of which, faintly defined against the patch of sky, stood the figure of a man.
“Saved, by George!” exclaimed the youth, with mock melodramatic emphasis.
“Halloa! Hi! Wait a moment there, will you?” he shouted.
The figure stopped and turned its head, then, after what seemed a moment’s hesitation, brought back the dog, which was running toward the belated youth, and suddenly disappeared.
The wanderer pulled up and stared about the glade with an astonishment which immediately gave place to wrath.
“Confound his impudence!” he exclaimed, fiercely. “I’ll swear he saw me! What on earth did he mean by going off like that? Did the fool think I was a ghost? I’ll show him I’m a ghost that carries a big stick if I come up with him. Confound him, where——” Then, as a sudden thought struck him, he set off running down the glade, barking like a dog.
No live, real dog could withstand such an invitation. The dog ahead set up an angry echo, through which the youth could hear the man’s angry attempt to silence the animal, and guided by the two voices, the wanderer struck into a footpath, and running at a good pace, came suddenly into a small clearing, in which stood a small wooden hut, before the door of which man and dog were standing as if on guard.
For a moment the two men stood and regarded each other in silence, the youth hot and angry, the man calm and grim.
Each, in his way, was a fine specimen of his class; the man, with his weather-beaten face and his thick-set limbs, clad in woodman’s garb; the youth, with his frankly handsome countenance and patrician air.
“What the deuce do you mean by leaving a man in the lurch like this?” demanded the young man, angrily. “Did you take me for a ghost?”
The woodman, half leaning on his long-handled axe, regarded him grimly.
“No. I don’t come at every man’s beck and call, young sir. What’s your will with me?”
“Why didn’t you stop when I called to you just now?” retorted the youth, ignoring the question.
“Because it didn’t suit me,” said the man, not insolently, but with simple, straightforward candor. “You are answered, young sir; now, what do you want?”
The young man looked at him curiously, conquering his anger.
“Well, I’ve lost my way,” he said, after a moment’s pause.
“Where are you going?” was the quiet response.
“To Arkdale.”
The woodman raised his eyes, and looked at him for a moment.
“Arkdale? Yes, you are out of the way. Arkdale lies to the west. Follow me, young sir, and I’ll show you the road.”
“Stop a moment,” said the other; “though you declined to wait for me just now, you would not refuse to give me a glass of water, I suppose.”
The man turned, he had already strode forward, and laid his hand on the latch of the cottage door.
The young man was following as a matter of course; but the woodman, with his hand still on the latch, pointed to a wooden seat under the window.
“Take your seat there, sir,” he said, with grim determination.
The other stared, and the hot blood rose to his face; but he threw himself on the bench.
“Very well,” he said; “I see you still think me a ghost; you’ll be more easy when you see me drink. Look sharp, my good fellow.”
The woodman, not a whit moved by this taunt, entered the cottage, and the young man heard a bolt shot into its place.
A few moments passed, and then the man came out with a plate and a glass.
“Thanks,” said the young man. “What’s this?”
“Cider—cake,” was the curt answer.
“Oh, thanks,” repeated the other; “jolly good cider, too. Come, you’re not half a bad fellow. Do you know I meant to give you a hiding when I came up to you?”
“Very like,” said the man, calmly. “Will you have any more?”
“Another glass, thanks.”
With his former precaution in the way of bolting and barring, the man entered the cottage and reappeared with a refilled glass.
This the young man drank more leisurely, staring with unconcealed curiosity at his entertainer.
It was a kind of stare that would embarrass six men out of ten, and madden the remaining four; but the woodman bore it with the calm impassiveness of a wooden block, and stood motionless as a statue till the youth set down the glass, then he raised his hand and pointed to the west.
“Yonder lies Arkdale.”
“Oh! How far?”
“Four miles and a half by the near road. Follow me, and I will put you into it.”
“All