"As you will. Those who can, pay. Those who can't, don't. All caged birds, I help. Blight him! Blight him!"
"We would rest till night, then you can put us on our way to the coast. This is an ill land to wander in in the dark. Last night we came on one who had strayed and died."
"Where away?" he asked quickly.
"In the marshes—over yonder—about a mile away, I should say."
"Was he clothed?" he snapped.
"Yes, he was clothed."
And he was off with his pole across the flats, in great bounds, while we sat wondering. We could see his uncouth hops as he went to and fro at a distance, and in time he came back with a bundle of clothes tied to his back.
"Food one can always get for the herbs of the marshes," he said, "and drink comes easy when you know where to get it. But clothes cost money and the dead need them not. Blight him!"
Le Marchant begged me to ask if he had any tobacco and a pipe, and I did so. He went inside and came out with a clay pipe and some dried brown herb.
"It is not what you smoke, but such as it is it is there," he said; and Le Marchant tried a whiff or two, but laid the pipe aside with a grunt.