THE CULT OF DRESS.
* * * * *
But he had not read a dozen words when he was aware of a rustling of leaves, near by, that was not of the wind, and then the panting of breath drawn in painful gasps; and, therefore, having duly marked his place with a finger, he raised his head and glanced about him. As he did so, the hedge, almost opposite, was burst asunder and a man came slipping down the bank, and, regaining his feet, stood staring at Barnabas and panting. A dusty, bedraggled wretch he looked, unshaven and unkempt, with quick, bright eyes that gleamed in the pale oval of his face.
"What do you want?" Barnabas demanded.
"Everything!" the man panted, with the ghost of a smile on his pallid lips; "but—the ditch would do."
"And why the ditch?"
"Because they're—after me."
"Who are?"
"Gamekeepers!"
"Then, you're a poacher?"