Hester guessed he had a broken heart because of a disappointment in love, and was living all alone because he hated the world, like Lord Byron.
He liked this most of all, and laughed for a long time—much longer, he explained afterwards, than a broken-hearted Lord Byron would have done.
Horace Campbell did not exactly guess, but said that he hoped that the stranger was a gentleman burglar—a kind of Raffles and Robin Hood in one—who robbed only the wicked rich and helped the poor. "As," he added, "I want to."
"Oh, do you?" said the big man. "Well, don't rob me, anyway. Wait till I have led the Snail to a place of safety."
And lastly Gregory guessed. "I think," he said, "you are a vagabond."
"Gregory!" cried Janet; "you mustn't say things like that," while the stranger laughed again.
"Why not?" Gregory inquired. "I mean like the Wandering Jew Mr. Crawley told us about. He called him the prince of vagabonds."
"Well," said the stranger, "Gregory's right. I am a vagabond. But I'm something else too, and I'll tell you. I'm an artist. My name is Hamish MacAngus. I live in the Snail most of the summer, and in London in the winter. I cover pieces of cardboard and canvas with paint more or less like trees, and cows, and sheep, and skies, and people who have more pennies than brains buy them from me; and then I take the pennies, and change them for the nice sensible things of life, such as bacon, and tobacco, and oats. My horse's name is Pencil. I came here from Banbury, and I am making slowly for Cropthorne. Now tell me all about yourselves. Tell me in the order of age."
The children looked at each other, and laughed.
"You first," said Mr. MacAngus, again to Janet; "you're the eldest, I can see."