Lothian slipped the thing into a side pocket of his coat.
In a few minutes, dressed in warm wildfowling clothes of grey wool and carrying his gun, he was tramping out of the long village street with Tumpany.
The wind sang like flying arrows, the dark road was hard beneath their feet.
They came to Tumpany's cottage and little shop, which were on the outskirts of the village.
Then Lothian stopped.
"Look here," he said, "you can give me the bag now. There really isn't any need for you to come to the marsh head with me, Tumpany.—Much better get to bed and be fresh for to-morrow."
The man was nothing loth. The lit window of his house invited him.
"Thank you, sir," he said, sobered now by the keen night wind, "then I'll say good-night."
—"Night Tumpany."
"G'night, sir."