"One Peter Norcot, from Chagford. This is not my country, and I'm seeking the River Swincombe—have been doing so for many hours in vain. Now 'Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood.' But where's the river?"
"You be within half a mile of it, your honour."
"Then I came straighter than I knew. That's the reward for always going straight, Mr. Cloberry; when darkness overtakes us, we go straight still. It has become a habit. I want the new farm of Mr. Malherb beneath Cater's Beam. And you shall show me the way thereto."
Leaman Cloberry shifted a small bag that he carried on his shoulder. He was bound in the same direction; but while Norcot might be supposed a friend to Fox Tor Farm, Cloberry crept thither with intentions the reverse of friendly. He had chosen the fog for a dark purpose. Now, however, he hid his designs and spoke.
"I know the place and a good few of the men as works there."
"How do they prosper? Malherb and Dartmoor must be flint and steel. Yet the man will prove tougher than the granite, I hope."
Cloberry stroked a red mark on his cheek.
"Did you hear tell what chanced to Holne Church a week ago?" he asked.
"No, I did not."
"My gentleman from Fox Tor Farm took his ladies there to worship. An' I comed along same time with a vixen fox an' two cubs to hang 'em up in the sight of the nation, so as all men might see I'd earned my money. An' he falled on me like a cat-a-mountain, an' used awfulest language ever let fly in a burying-ground, an' hit me across the face with his whip."