“You’d find me, for one. What I’d give the man who rid Logie-side of Hardcastle—but, then, you’re only half-man, maybe, like the rest.”
With that, Will o’ Wisp was in the toils again; and as they went down to Garsykes, the basket-weaver nestled close against him.
Hardcastle, meanwhile, had taken his own grim way to Logie—over the bridge of many memories and up the winding steep of the road. His gate, when he reached it, held memories, too, and he fingered the arrow-head left there as a token before the autumn trees were stripped. He kept it in his pocket nowadays, for luck.
A stable-lad, sweeping the lane, touched his forelock as Hardcastle came by.
“There’s been Farmer Draycott to see you, Master, but he couldn’t wait till you came back. You promised to go to Broken Firs to-morrow about repairs, and he stepped up to remind you.”
“I’d not forgotten,” said Hardcastle carelessly—“though it’s a long message for you to carry, William.”
The lad grinned sheepishly. “It did twist the few wits I’ve got; but I just kept on saying it over and over—not letting go in a manner o’ speaking, like as if I stuck to a rope.—And, Master——”
“Well?”
“I’d not go if I was you.”
Hardcastle glanced at him with gruff kindliness; for all Logie humoured this lad of the strong hands and the lame wits.