"Oh come, stow that!" said the man. "You dunno what I'm talkin' about; that's plain as a pike. You aint used to the road! Where d'ye come from?"
"I've walked from Bristol," he answered—"And you're quite right,—I'm not used to the road."
The man looked at him and his hard face softened. Pushing back his tattered cap from his brows he showed his features more openly, and a smile, half shrewd, half kindly, made them suddenly pleasant.
"Av coorse you're not!" he declared. "Glory be good to me! I've tramped this bit o' road for years, an' never come across such a poor old chuckle-headed gammer as you sleepin' under a tree afore! Readin' portry an' droppin' to by-by over it! The larst man as iver I saw a' readin' portry was what they called a 'Serious Sunday' man, an' 'e's doin' time now in Portland."
Helmsley smiled. He was amused;—his "adventures," he thought, were beginning. To be called "a poor old chuckle-headed gammer" was a new and almost delightful experience.
"Portland's an oncommon friendly place," went on his uninvited companion. "Once they gits ye, they likes ye to stop. 'Taint like the fash'nable quality what says to their friends: 'Do-ee come an' stay wi' me, loveys!' wishin' all the while as they wouldn't. Portland takes ye willin', whether ye likes it or not, an' keeps ye so fond that ye can't git away nohow. Oncommon 'ospitable Portland be!"
And he broke into a harsh laugh. Then he glanced at Helmsley again with a more confiding and favourable eye.
"Ye seems a 'spectable sort," he said. "What's wrong wi' ye? Out o' work?"
Helmsley nodded.
"Turned off, eh? Too old?"