CHAPTER V.
AN ox-team was lumbering along the road towards us. The huge oxen lurched from side to side, half-asleep, making nothing of their load of meal-sacks piled high in air; their driver walked beside, half-asleep, too. He was a giant in height (six foot six, Melody, in his stockings! I have measured him myself), and his white clothes made him look something monstrous indeed. Yvon stared and gaped, as this vision came slowly towards him.
"What—what is it?" he asked. "Is it a monster?"
"Oh, no!" I said. "It's only Ham Belfort. How are you, Ham?"
"Smart!" said Ham. "How be you? Hoish, Star! haw! Stand still there, will ye?"
The oxen came to a halt willingly enough, and man and beasts stood regarding us with calm, friendly eyes. Ham and his oxen looked so much alike, Melody (the oxen were white, I ought to have said), that I sometimes thought, if we dressed one of the beasts up and did away with his horns, people would hardly know which was which.
Cato was the nearest town, my dear. It was there that the weekly boat touched, which was our one link with the world of cities and railways.
Ham nodded; he was not given to unnecessary speech.
"Is your wife better? I heard she was poorly."