CHAPTER VII
WHICH NARRATES A SOMEWHAT REMARKABLE CONVERSATION
To find a man in Cambourne Woods, even so big a man as Black George, would seem as hard a matter as to find the needle in the proverbial "bottle of hay;" the sun crept westward, the day declined into evening, yet, hungry though I was, I persevered in my search, not so much in the hope of finding him (in the which I knew I must be guided altogether by chance), as from a disinclination to return, just yet, to the cottage. "It would be miserable there at this hour," I told myself, "miserable and lonely."
Yet why should I be lonely; I, who had gloried in my solitude hitherto?
Whence then had come this change?
While I stood thus, seeking an answer to this self-imposed question and finding none, I heard some one approach, whistling, and, looking about, beheld a fellow with an axe upon his shoulder, who strode along at a good pace, keeping time to his whistle. He gave me a cheery greeting as he came up, but without stopping.
"You seem in a hurry," said I.
"Ah!" grinned the man, over his shoulder, "'cause why?—'cause I be goin' 'ome."
"Home!" said I.
"To supper," he nodded, and, forthwith, began to whistle again, while I stood listening till the clear notes had died away.
"Home!" said I for the second time, and there came upon me a feeling of desolation such as I had never known even in my neglected boyhood's days.