I MEET WITH A GREAT MISFORTUNE
That day I passed through several villages, stopping only to eat and drink; thus evening was falling as, having left fair Sevenoaks behind, I came to the brow of a certain hill, a long and very steep descent which (I think) is called the River Hill. And here, rising stark against the evening sky, was a gibbet, and standing beneath it a man, a short, square man in a somewhat shabby coat of a bottle-green, and with a wide-brimmed beaver hat sloped down over his eyes, who stood with his feet well apart, sucking the knob of a stick he carried, while he stared up at that which dangled by a stout chain from the cross-beam of the gibbet,—something black and shrivelled and horrible that had once been human.
As I came up, the man drew the stick from his mouth and touched the brim of his hat with it in salutation.
"An object lesson, sir," said he, and nodded towards the loathsome mass above.
"A very hideous one!" said I, pausing, "and I think a very useless one."
"He was as fine a fellow as ever thrust toe into stirrup," the man went on, pointing upwards with his stick, "though you'd never think so to look at him now!"
"It's a horrible sight!" said I.
"It is," nodded the man, "it's a sight to turn a man's stomach, that it is!"
"You knew him perhaps?" said I.
"Knew him," repeated the man, staring at me over his shoulder, "knew him—ah—that is, I knew of him."