“And horses?”
“Always a couple, and a nag for counting the sheep.”
“How many sheep?”
“Never less than a hundred. Some flocks run to three or four hundred.”
“Ah. Where are dey?”
Martin, proud of his knowledge, indicated the position and approximate distance of the hollows, invisible for the most part, in which lay the larger holdings.
“Do you understand a map?” inquired Fritz.
“Yes. I love maps. They tell you everything, when you can read them properly.”
“Not everyding,” and the man smiled. “Some day I want to visit one of dose big farms. Can you mark a few?”
He spread an Ordnance map—a clean sheet—and gave his guide a pencil. Soon Martin had dotted the paper with accurate information, such as none but one reared in that wild country could have supplied. He was eager to prove his familiarity with a map, and followed each bend and twist of the prehistoric glacier beds, where the lowland becks had their origin. He was not “showing off” before a foreigner. He loved this brown moor and was only too pleased to have found a sympathetic listener.