II
When Jack looked round again it was day. And the driver's beard was black. He was a man with a thin red face and black beard and queer grey eyes that had a mocking sort of secret in them.
"I thought your beard was white," said Jack.
"Ay, with rime. With frost. Not with anything else."
"I didn't expect hoar-frost here."
"Well—it's not so very common. Not like the Old Country."
Jack realised they always spoke patronisingly of the Old Country, poor old place, as if it couldn't help being what it was.
The man's grey eyes with the amused secret glanced quickly at Jack.
"Not quite awake yet?" he said.
"Oh, yes," said Jack.