§ 2
“Hi!” cried Bealby weakly, hailing the glow of the fire out of the darkness of the woods above.
The man by the fire peered at the sound; he had been listening to the stumbling footsteps for some time, and he answered nothing.
In another minute Bealby had struggled through the hedge into the visible world and stood regarding the man by the fire. The phantom wolves had fled beyond Sirius. But Bealby’s face was pale still from the terrors of the pursuit and altogether he looked a smallish sort of small boy.
“Lost?” said the man by the fire.
“Couldn’t find my way,” said Bealby.
“Anyone with you?”
“No.”
The man reflected. “Tired?”
“Bit.”
“Come and sit down by the fire and rest yourself.
“I won’t ’urt you,” he added as Bealby hesitated.
So far in his limited experience Bealby had never seen a human countenance lit from behind by a flickering red flame. The effect he found remarkable rather than pleasing. It gave this stranger the most active and unstable countenance Bealby had ever seen. The nose seemed to be in active oscillation between pug and Roman, the eyes jumped out of black caves and then went back into them, the more permanent features appeared to be a vast triangle of neck and chin. The tramp would have impressed Bealby as altogether inhuman if it had not been for the smell of cooking he diffused. There were onions in it and turnips and pepper—mouth-watering constituents, testimonials to virtue. He was making a stew in an old can that he had slung on a cross stick over a brisk fire of twigs that he was constantly replenishing.
“I won’t ’urt you, darn you,” he repeated. “Come and sit down on these leaves here for a bit and tell me all abart it.”
Bealby did as he was desired. “I got lost,” he said, feeling too exhausted to tell a good story.
The tramp, examined more closely, became less pyrotechnic. He had a large loose mouth, a confused massive nose, much long fair hair, a broad chin with a promising beard and spots—a lot of spots. His eyes looked out of deep sockets and they were sharp little eyes. He was a lean man. His hands were large and long and they kept on with the feeding of the fire as he sat and talked to Bealby. Once or twice he leant forward and smelt the pot judiciously, but all the time the little eyes watched Bealby very closely.
“Lose yer collar?” said the tramp.
Bealby felt for his collar. “I took it orf,” he said.
“Come far?”
“Over there,” said Bealby.
“Where?”
“Over there.”
“What place?”
“Don’t know the name of it.”
“Then it ain’t your ’ome?”
“No.”
“You’ve run away,” said the man.
“Pr’aps I ’ave,” said Bealby.
“Pr’aps you ’ave! Why pr’aps? You ’ave! What’s the good of telling lies abart it? When’d you start?”
“Monday,” said Bealby.
The tramp reflected. “Had abart enough of it?”
“Dunno,” said Bealby truthfully.
“Like some soup?”
“Yes.”
“’Ow much?”
“I could do with a lot,” said Bealby.
“Ah yah! I didn’t mean that. I meant, ’ow much for some? ’Ow much will you pay for a nice, nice ’arf can of soup? I ain’t a darn charity. See?”
“Tuppence,” said Bealby.
The tramp shook his head slowly from side to side and took out the battered iron spoon he was using to stir the stuff and tasted the soup lusciously. It was—jolly good soup and there were potatoes in it.
“Thrippence,” said Bealby.
“’Ow much you got?” asked the tramp.
Bealby hesitated perceptibly. “Sixpence,” he said weakly.
“It’s sixpence,” said the tramp. “Pay up.”
“’Ow big a can?” asked Bealby.
The tramp felt about in the darkness behind him and produced an empty can with a jagged mouth that had once contained, the label witnessed—I quote, I do not justify—‘Deep Sea Salmon.’ “That,” he said, “and this chunk of bread.... Right enough?”
“You will do it?” said Bealby.
“Do I look a swindle?” cried the tramp, and suddenly a lump of the abundant hair fell over one eye in a singularly threatening manner. Bealby handed over the sixpence without further discussion. “I’ll treat you fairly, you see,” said the tramp, after he had spat on and pocketed the sixpence, and he did as much. He decided that the soup was ready to be served and he served it with care. Bealby began at once. “There’s a nextry onion,” said the tramp, throwing one over. “It didn’t cost me much and I gives it you for nothin’. That’s all right, eh? Here’s ’ealth!”
Bealby consumed his soup and bread meekly with one eye upon his host. He would, he decided, eat all he could and then sit a little while, and then get this tramp to tell him the way to—anywhere else. And the tramp wiped soup out of his can with gobbets of bread very earnestly and meditated sagely on Bealby.
“You better pal in with me, matey, for a bit,” he said at last. “You can’t go nowhere else—not to-night.”
“Couldn’t I walk perhaps to a town or sumpthing?”
“These woods ain’t safe.”
“’Ow d’you mean?”
“Ever ’eard tell of a gurrillia?—sort of big black monkey thing.”
“Yes,” said Bealby faintly.
“There’s been one loose abart ’ere—oh week or more. Fact. And if you wasn’t a grown up man quite and going along in the dark, well—’e might say something to you.... Of course ’e wouldn’t do nothing where there was a fire or a man—but a little chap like you. I wouldn’t like to let you do it, ’strewth I wouldn’t. It’s risky. Course I don’t want to keep you. There it is. You go if you like. But I’d rather you didn’t. ’Onest.”
“Where’d he come from?” asked Bealby.
“M’nagery,” said the tramp.
“’E very near bit through the fist of a chap that tried to stop ’im,” said the tramp.
Bealby after weighing tramp and gorilla very carefully in his mind decided he wouldn’t and drew closer to the fire—but not too close—and the conversation deepened.