It was the first question only that was answered.
“You are on our land.”
“Your land—but where is it? In what part of England?”
“I don’t know,” said the old man and shrugged his lean shoulders. “But you haven’t any right on it. It’s ours.”
He pushed back his chair and stood up to his full, tall height; then, raising his hand, addressed the assembly of his followers.
“You have all of you heard what he said and know what he wants. Now let me hear what you think. Say it out loud and not in each other’s ears.”
He dropped his arm and stood waiting a reply—and after a moment one came from the back of the room.
“It’s winter,” said a man’s voice, half-sulky, half-defiant, “and we’ve hardly enough left for ourselves. We don’t want any more mouths here—we’ve more than we can fill as it is.” A murmur of agreement encouraged him and he went on—louder and pushing through the crowd as he spoke. “We fend for our own and he must fend for his. He ought to think himself lucky if we let him go after we’ve taken him on our land. What business had he there?”
This time the murmur of agreement was stronger and a second voice called over it:
“If we catch him here again he won’t get off so easily!”