The man's eyes narrowed with a curious, ugly look.
"Are you deaf?" he said very quietly.
A muttered negative came from the child. The question contained a quality of scorn that he felt and resented.
"I want to cross the marsh, get to the railway. What's the best way to go?"
Tito's arm made a sweeping gesture round the head of the tules.
"That. There's a trail. You go round."
"Good God—that's miles. How do people go, the people here, when they want to get to the other side?"
"That way." Tito repeated his gesture. "But they don't go often, and they mostly rides."
The man gave a groaning oath, picked up his hat, then cast it from him with fury, and, planting his elbows on his knees, dropped his forehead on his hands. Tito was sorry for him, and advanced charily, his heart full of sympathy.
"The duck shooters have laid planks," he murmured encouragingly.