"Is it that you want to shake hands with me, old fellow?" asked Master Nathaniel.
But the old man shook his head peevishly. "Farm hand," he managed to bring out. "Dig ... dig."
And then he lapsed into doggerel:
"Dig and delve, delve and dig,
Harness the mare to the farmer's gig."
Finally Master Nathaniel gave up trying to get any sense out of him and untethered his horse. But when he tried to mount, the old man seized the stirrup and looking up at him imploringly, repeated, "Dig ... dig ... dig." And Master Nathaniel was obliged to shake him off with some roughness. And even after he had left him out of sight he could hear his voice in the distance, shouting, "Dig ... dig."
"I wonder what the old fellow was trying to tell me," said Master Nathaniel to himself.
On the morning of the following day he arrived at the village of Swan-on-the-Dapple.
Here the drama of autumn had only just reached its gorgeous climax, and the yellow and scarlet trees were flaming out their silent stationary action against the changeless chorus of pines, dark green against the distant hills.
"By the Golden Apples of the West!" muttered Master Nathaniel, "I'd no idea those accursed hills were so near. I'm glad Ranulph's safe away."