This place seemed to have considerable attractions for him. The aspect of nature is always beautiful, but rugged, savage, uncultivated nature this lad loved the most. Perhaps the reason of this might be traced to his occupation as a tiller of the soil.
As he entered the grass road which ran through the middle of the common he overtook a man who was walking slowly along, looking on all sides of him, and stopping every few steps to listen.
No. 17.
PEACE AT THE ARGYLL ROOMS.
Alf knew pretty well every inhabitant of the locality by sight, but he never remembered to have seen the individual he now came across for the first time.
“Who can he be, and what’s his game?” he murmured; “he’s a queer-looking sort of customer. I’ll just watch and see what he’s up to.”
The man had a short pipe in his mouth—he was tall, but stooped slightly, which took somewhat off his height. His clothes were travel-stained and dilapidated, and the beard on his chin seemed to be of some days’ growth.
For the rest, his skin was of a deep brown, partly attributable to dirt and partly to his natural complexion, which was what might be termed swarthy. As to his age it would have puzzled any one to tell except those who had been acquainted with him for years—he might be seven and thirty, or he might be sixty.
On his back he carried a huge bundle, which was as large and heavy as a pedlar’s pack, but of a very different shape.