He was prevented by the entrance of Chug-chug, who came to ask him by signs to come to the other hut. “D. W. is back, then,” he thought. “Now for it.”
He followed Chug-chug to the other hut, which was lit by three lamps. A trestle-table had been rigged up, food was set upon it. The man sat on his camp-chair at the table-head, facing Hi. He had a much worn cartridge belt slung over his shoulder: one of the pouches of it was stamped D. W. He had been cleaning a light sporting rifle with a pull-through and an oily feather: he now held the rifle across his knees, and kept opening the breech and snapping it to. Hi could see him more clearly than had been possible to him the night before. In the main, he felt his impression confirmed, that he did not like the man: there was more force in him than wisdom or goodness.
“You’d better have some chow, chum,” the man said.
The chow was the oily, peppery meat stew, served with cassava bread, of which Hi had already eaten twice that day.
“Find yourself a pew there,” the man said. He was not a gracious host: he seemed to resent Hi’s presence there, yet this was a kind of invitation from him to sit down and dine. Hi pulled a stool to the table and sat down.
“I suppose I’d better introduce myself,” the man said, “like the ladies do at these receptions. Did you ever hear of Brocket Letcombe-Bassett, the hundred yards Blue?”
“No,” Hi said.
“Well, he is my father’s second cousin. My father’s a clergyman, or was. I don’t know whether he’s still alive; I don’t much care.”
“Then are you Mr. Letcombe-Bassett?”
“Yes.”