"Do tell us what it is like," Jack said, coaxingly; "because we want to know for a very particular reason, don't we, Theo?"
Theodore nodded; and John Bawdon proceeded:
"It's grand on Dartmoor! The air's so fine and fresh it puts strength into one's veins and braces one up! I've been on the moors in all weathers—when the sky has looked like one great sea of blue, and there hasn't been a scrap of shade anywhere, and the heather's been in bloom—the most beautiful sight—miles upon miles of purple with never a break! Then I've seen the moors all covered with fog, so thick that you couldn't see your hand if you held it close to your eyes!"
"Father says people often get lost in those fogs," Theodore remarked, "and sometimes they get into bogs, don't they?"
"Yes. It is a serious business to be lost in a fog on Dartmoor, and it can happen easier than you think. I mind when I was a bit of a lad not much older than you, Master Theodore, I missed my way in a fog one dull November afternoon, and should have had to spend the whole night on the moor if it hadn't cleared. I was crouching for shelter under a great granite rock, half-dead with cold I really believe, when I saw a glow of light appear. The fog cleared almost suddenly, and the full moon slowly sailed upwards into the sky, making everything show out as plainly as though it was day. It was a grand sight, I can tell you! I ran home as fast as ever I could, and glad enough my parents were to see me, for they had missed me, and when they saw the fog come down, had made up their minds I was lost on the moors, and would like enough perish with cold."
"But couldn't your father have gone to look for you?" questioned Jack. "That's what I should have thought he would have done."
The old man shook his head gravely.
"A man may be born on the moors," he said, "and yet not be able to find his way in a fog. My father could walk almost everywhere in the dark, but a fog is very misleading. There was a convict I heard of once who escaped from Princetown Prison, which is right in the heart of Dartmoor. He stole away in a dense fog, thinking to escape easier. He ran for miles and miles, not knowing where he was going, but imagining he was getting further and further away from the prison; and, by-and-by, worn out and footsore, he lay down on the ground to rest. He soon fell asleep, and when he awoke the fog had cleared away, and he—now, where do you suppose he was?"
The boys shook their heads. Their eyes were fixed intently upon the old man's face, whilst he was well pleased to see them so deeply interested.
"He was right outside the prison," John Bawdon declared solemnly; "he had run in a circle, and come back to the very spot from which he had started. He saw it was no good trying to escape then, so he just allowed himself to be taken again. You see how misleading a fog can be, and if you ever find yourself on Dartmoor, you mind what I've told you!"