“Are there many sheep out on the mosses, to-night?”
After the first stare of wonder, anxiety rolled like a wave from one face to another, each looking into each and back again to his lordship, and then the answers broke round the table: “Twenty in t’ lower meader—fourteen on t’ middle moss—nay, I’ve all mine penned—seventeen—ten—why, what’s the stir? Storm’s nowt, is it?”
Holliday’s lads got up and looked at the door, remembering the precious stock on the lowest land of all. Other men followed their example. Only Lup sat on, with his eyes fixed on Lanty.
“The tide is for one o’clock,” said Bluecaster. “The wind may bring it earlier. It will be a big tide.”
He said no more, but the room emptied as if by magic, the men jerking their good-nights over their shoulders as they went on.
“You will forgive me?” the intruder said to the host. Outside, he motioned Lancaster into his car.
“Pippin!” he ordered, “and——if we can get there,” he added, under his breath. The agent looked at him.
“Is it coming?” he asked.
“It is here,” said Bluecaster.