"Well, 's this way," he said, in an access of confidence. "I heard ole so-an'-so had sold 'is mine to a swindicate and was goin' to stand a blow-out at the pub at Hergit. I might's well be in thet, I ses; but I found I was a week ahead of it, and now I'm just waitin' here for that——drunk. My oath, it wus hard when I larnt I was to be a——week out en them drinks; my throat's peelin'. You don't happen to have——"
I cut in that I didn't happen to have——
"Then d'ye happen to have a squib?"—(squib=revolver).
I looked at my friend. He observed the glance.
"Now, now, nuthin' like that about me," he said. "Fact is"—in another burst of confidence—"I'm perishin' fer a bit of meat. There ain't no harm in thet, I hope."
We chatted (confidentially still) about this strange life of his.
"And how do you get meat?" I asked in my simplicity.
"Why, y' know," he answered with a wink, "if we see a sheep we can't stand quiet and let it bite us, now, can we? It wouldn't be human natur'." And he chuckled at his joke.
* * * *
A late start was made the following morning. An entry presently made in my note book has it thus: "Plugging away, barely moving, against a viciously strong wind, over bleak, soft, treeless, and nearly flat country, strewed with loose stones, and with a sand-hill now and again by way of change, or the marshy bed of a salt lagoon to wade through"—an experience to be forgotten as soon as possible.