“’Unt me out of this, I expect,” said the tramp. “And many sleeping in feather beds that ain’t fit to ’old a candle to me. Not a hordinary farthing candle....”
§ 5
The subsequent hour or so was an interval of tedious tension for Bealby.
After vast spaces of time he was suddenly aware of three vertical threads of light. He stared at them with mysterious awe, until he realized that they were just the moonshine streaming through the cracks of the shed.
The tramp tossed and muttered in his sleep.
Footsteps?
Yes—Footsteps.
Then voices.
They were coming along by the edge of the field, and coming and talking very discreetly.
“Ugh!” said the tramp, and then softly, “what’s that?” Then he too became noiselessly attentive.